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BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING 

GERMANY 




Captain Tzschirner of Hindcnburg's staff and Edward Lyell 
Fox in Eydtkuhnen after the battle. 



BEHIND THE SCENES 
IN WARRING GERMANY 



BY 

EDWARD LYELL FOX 

Special Correspondent with the Kaiser's Armies 
and in Berlin 







NEW YORK 

McBRIDE, NAST & COMPANY 

1915 



Copyright, 1915, by 

Illustrated Sunday Magazines 

Niw York American 

WiLDMAN Magazine AND News Service 

Copyright, 1915, by 
McBride, Nast & Co. 



J53\ 
ft 



Published May, 1915 


4i^ 


m 26 1^15 


©aA406034 ' 
T-t 5 / 



To 
E. W. F. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Threshold of War 1 

II "The Beloved King'' 26 

III To the West Front .39 

IV On the Back op the Bird op War . . ..55 
V Behind the Battleline 73 

VI A Night Before Ypres 100 

VII In the Trenches 126 

VIII Captured Belgium and Its Governor General 160 

IX Prisoners of War 170 

X On the Heels op the Russian Retreat . . 194 

XI The Battle of Augustowo Wald .... 222 

XII The War on the Russian Frontier . . . 254 

XIII The Hero op All Germany 274 

XIV With the American Red Cross on the Rus- 

SLiN Frontier 290 

XV The Secret Books op England's General 

Staff 312 

XVI The Future — Peace or War 324 



THE ILLUSTEATIONS 

Capt. Tzschirner and the author . . . Frontispiece 

VAOIKQ 
PAQB 

Notifications from the German Foreign Office ... 28 

Court filled with drilling soldiers .80 

Ober-lieutenant Herrmann 80 

With French prisoners at Zossen 182 

Burying Russians on East Prussian frontier . . . 196 

■Reenforcements following our motor car into Russia . 196 

Photographs of alleged British staff books .... 312 

Aviator's guide book 316 

Aviator's key map 320 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN 
WARRING GERMANY 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

1 

*N the lingering twilight, the Baltic's choppy swells 

turned dark and over the bow I saw a vague gray 
strip of land — Germany! I was at the gateway of 
war. 

For two hours the railway ferry had plowed be- 
tween the mines that strew the way to Denmark 
with potential death, and as slowly the houses of 
Warnemunde appeared in shadow against the dark- 
ening day, some one touched my arm. 

" Safe now.'' 

He was the courier. He had traveled with me from 
New York to Copenhagen, a bland, reserved young 
man, with a caution beyond his years. I had come 
to know he was making the trip as a German courier, 
and he was an American with no Teutonic blood in 
his veins ! Knowing the ropes, he had suggested that 
he see me through to Berlin. 

" It's good we came over the Baltic,'' he remarked, 

1 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" instead of making that long trip through Jutland. 
We save eight hours. *^ 

" Yes/^ I agreed, " nothing like slipping in the back 
door." 

And being new to it then, and being very conscious 
of certain letters I carried, and of the power implied 
in the documents which I knew he carried, I wondered 
what the frontier guard would do. During the two 
hours we ferried from the Danish shore the passen- 
gers talked in a troubled way of the military search 
given every one at Warnemunde and I smiled to my- 
self in a reassuring way. Yes, they would be 
searched, poor devils! . . . But the courier and I? 
I wondered if the German Lieutenant at Warnemunde 
would ask us to take coffee with him. I even took 
out my watch. No, it could hardly be done, for by 
the time the soldiers had finished searching all these 
passengers the train would be leaving. Too bad! 
Coffee and a chat with some other lieutenant, then. 

" Yes," the courier was saying as the ferry docked 
and we caught, under the glint of the sentries' rifles, 
a glimpse of the Landwehr red and blue, "it will be so 
easy here — just a formality, whereas if we had 
taken the other route it no doubt would have been 
harder. You see," he explained, " when a train 
crosses the Kiel canal a soldier is posted in every com- 
partment, the window shades are pulled down and the 
passengers are warned not to look out on penalty of 
instant death. Of course that is necessary for mili- 
tary reasons. Naturally the whole inspection at that 
frontier is more severe because of the Kiel canal." 

2 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

By this time the big boat had been made fast to a 
long railroad pier and as we crossed the gang plank 
we made out in the bluish haze of an arc lamp, a 
line of soldiers who seemed to be herding the pas- 
sengers into what appeared to be a long wooden shed 
newly built Crowds are the same the world over, 
so no one held back, all pushing, luggage and pass- 
ports in hand, into the frame structure built, I real- 
ized, for purposes of military inspection. 

Sluggishly the mass moved forward. Presently I 
saw it divide halfway down the room, to pause before 
two openings at which six soldiers waited, like ticket 
takers in a circus. I was near enough now to ob- 
serve the lantern light dimly shining upon two crude 
desk tops, slanting down from the wall which gave 
entrance through a doorway to a larger room beyond ; 
and everywhere gleamed the glint of gun barrels, the 
red and blue or gray of military hats, while an increas- 
ing flow of German, punctuated with ^^ Donnerwet- 
ter!'^ and ^' Dds ist genug/' was heard above the 
shuffle of feet and the thumping of trunks and bags on 
the counters in the room beyond. I wondered what 
two men in civilian clothes were doing among the sol- 
diers; I saw them dart about, notebooks in hand. 
Later I learned more of these men who seemed to 
have it in their power to make the passengers they 
challenged either comfortable or uncomfortable. 

And then it was my turn. Having seen the pas- 
senger in front throw both hands over his head, un- 
consciously inviting the kind of search given a crim- 
inal, I decided such submissiveness a blunder. As I 

3 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

expected, the soldier was a perfectly sane human be- 
ing who did not begin punching a revolver against 
me — which certain printed words I had read in New 
York implied was the usual prelude to a German 
searching party- — rather this soldier most courte- 
ously asked to see my wallet. I gave it to him. I 
would have given him anything. Our cooperation 
was perfect. There was no need for me to bring my 
exhaustive knowledge of the German language into 
play. Talking fluently with my hands, now and then 
uttering ^' danke,^' I tried to assist his search, mean- 
while hopelessly looking about for the courier. I was 
depending not only upon his fluent German but also 
upon his superior knowledge of the situation to help 
me to pass serenely through this ordeal. Alas, the 
crowd hid him. 

Suddenly my soldier grunted something. Until 
now we had been getting along splendidly and I could 
not conceal my surprise when he took from my wallet 
a handful of letters and stared at them in bewilder- 
ment. The more he stared the more his regard for me 
seemed to vanish. Although he could not understand 
English he could recognize a proper name, for the let- 
ters bore the addresses of decidedly influential 
men in Germany. They challenged his suspicion. 
Thoroughly puzzled he opened the letters and tried 
to read them. When he compared my passport with 
a letter I saw his face light up. I realized that he 
had recognized my name in the contents. Where- 
upon, greatly relieved, assured now that everything 
was all right, I held out my hand for both letters and 

4 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

wallet. Not yet. A rumble of words and the soldier 
called one of those busy civilians with the notebooks. 

This person spoke a little English. The letters 
interested him. Where had I found them? . . . My 
spine began to feel cold. I replied that they had been 
given me in New York and remembering that I had 
the courier to rely on, I suggested that they have a 
word with him. It was then that I heard an excited 
deluge of words and, glancing over my shoulder, I 
observed that the courier was thoroughly flanked and 
surrounded by five Landwehr who apparently were 
much in earnest about something. Concluding that 
some cog had slipped I racked my wits to make the 
best of what was rapidly becoming a difficult situa- 
tion. 

The soldier having turned me over to the civilian I 
noticed several suspicious glances in my direction, 
and blessed the luck that had impelled me to go to the 
American Legation and the German Consulate in 
Copenhagen for vises. That the civilian who was 
taking such an interest in me belonged to the secret 
service, I was certain. I appealed to his sense of 
discretion. 

" Your passport seems all right,'' he thoughtfully 
observed, and opened a little book. " Where are you 
going?" 

I told him to Hamburg but could not tell him where 
I would stay, for the excellent reason that not the 
name of a single Hamburg hotel was known to me. 

" Only for a few days, though," I said, adding hope- 
fully ; " after that I go to Berlin to Hotel Adlon." 

5 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

As fast as his pencil could move he wrote the ad- 
dress in his book. 

^* These letters," he said reluctantly, tapping them 
on his hand, " I must take now. If everything is all 
right, they will be sent to you in Berlin." 

" But it is important that I have them," I protested, 
" they are my introductions. You cannot tell me how 
long I may have to wait for them? You can see from 
them that I am a responsible person known to your 
people." 

" I know," he replied, " but they are written in Eng- 
lish, and to bring letters written in English into Ger- 
many is forbidden. I am sorry." 

He was thus politely relieving me of all my creden- 
tials when I happened to think that in my inner waist- 
coat pocket lay a letter I had yet to show them — 
a communication so important to me that I had kept 
it separate from the others. Moreover I remembered 
it was sealed and that properly used it might save 
the day. It was worth a trial. 

Realizing that the thing had to be staged I im- 
pressively drew the police spy aside and employing 
the familiar " stage business " of side glances and ex- 
aggerated caution I slowly took the note — it was a 
mere letter of introduction to the Foreign Office — 
from my waistcoat. If the soldier's eyes had opened 
wide at the other addresses, the police agent's now 
fairly bulged. Handing him the envelope I pointed 
to what was typed in the upper left hand corner — 
Kaiserliche Deutsche Botschaft, Washington, D. C. 
— and simply said ^^ Verstehen sief '' 

6 



THE THRESHOLI]! OF WAR 

He verstehened. Being an underling he under- 
stood so well that after a few moments he returned 
all the letters he had appropriated and instantly 
changing his manner, he facilitated the rest of the 
inspection. After my baggage was examined by 
more soldiers (and those soldiers did their duty, even 
going through the pockets of clothes in my trunks) 
I was told I might go. 

^^ Gute reise/^ the police agent called— " Good jour- 
ney." 

Although treated with all courtesy I was afraid 
somebody might change his mind, so hurrying out of 
the last room of the long wooden shed I proceeded 
down the platform to the train at a pace that must 
have shown signs of breaking into a run. There in 
my compartment the thoughts that came to me were 
in this order: 

There must be reason for such a rigid inspection; 
no doubt spies must have been caught recently trying 
to enter Germany at Warnemunde. 

If I badn't lost the courier in the crowd there would 
have been plain sailing. 

The minutes passed. It was nearly time for the 
train to start. Where was the courier? Presently, 
rather pale, nervous in speech, but as reserved and 
cool as ever he limply entered the compartment and 
threw himself on the cushions. 

" They took everything," he announced. "All they 
left me was a pair of pajamas." 

" What ! You mean they have your papers? " 

" All of them," he smiled. " Likewise a trunk full 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

of letters and a valise. Oh, well, they'll send them 
on. They took my address. Gad, they stripped me 
through!" 

I began laughing. The courier could see no mirth 
in the situation. 

"You," I gasped, "you, who by all rights should 
have paraded through, from you they take everything 
while they let me pass.'' 

" Do you mean to say," he exclaimed, " that they 
didn't take your letters." 

" Not one," I grinned. 

" Well, I'll be damned !" he said. 

Locked in the compartment we nervously watched 
the door, half expecting that the police spy would 
come back for us. We could not have been delayed 
more than a few minutes, but it seemed hours, before, 
with German regard for comfort, the train glided out 
of the shed. It must have been trying on my com- 
panion's good humor, but the absurdity of stripping a 
courier of everything he carried, was irresistible. 
Perhaps it was our continued laughter that brought 
the knock on the door. 

Pushing aside the curtains we saw outside — for 
it was one of the new German wagons with a passage- 
way running the entire length of one side of the car 
— a tall, broad-shouldered, lean man with features 
and expression both typical and unmistakable. 

" An Englishman ! " 

We saw him smile and shake his head. I hesitat- 
ingly let fall the curtain and looked at the courier. 

" Let him in," he said. " He's got the brand of an 

8 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

English university boy all over him. We'll have a 
chat with him. You don't mind, do you ? " 

" Mind ! " In my eagerness I banged back the com- 
partment doors with a crash that brought down the 
conductor. I saw my companion hastily corrupt that 
ofl&cial whose murmured ^^ Bitteschon ^^ implied an un- 
Teutonic disregard for the fact that he had done 
something verhoten by admitting a second class pas- 
senger into a first class coup6; and the stranger en- 
tered. 

We were gazing upon a strikingly handsome fair- 
haired man not yet thirty. His eyes twinkled when he 
said that he supposed we were Americans. His man- 
ner and intonation made me stare at him. 

" And you? " we finally asked. 

" I'm going first to Berlin, then to Petrograd," he 
said, perhaps avoiding our question. " Business 
trip." 

We chatted on, the obvious thought obsessing me. 
Of course the man was an English spy. But how ab- 
surd! If his face did not give him away to any one 
who knew — and my word for it, those police spies 
do know ! — he would be betrayed by his mannerisms. 
His accent would instantly cry out the English in 
him. Of what could Downing Street be thinking? 
It was sending this man to certain death. One be- 
gan to feel sorry for him. 

Feeling the intimacy brought by the common ex- 
perience at Warnemunde, I presently said: 

" You certainly have your nerve with you, traveling 
in Germany with your accent." 

9 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" Why? '' he laughed. " A neutral is safe/' 

Expecting he would follow this up by saying be was 
an American I looked inquiring and when he sought 
to turn the subject I asked : 

"Neutral? What country?'' 

" Denmark," he smiled. 

" But your accent? " I persisted. 

" I do talk a bit English, do I not? I had quite a 
go at it, though; lived in London a few years, you 
know." 

Nerve? I marveled at it. Stark foolhardy cour- 
age, or did a secret commission from Downing Street 
make this the merest commonplace of duty? Charm- 
ing company, he hurried along the time with well told 
anecdotes of the Kussian capital and Paris, in both 
of which places he said he had been since the war be- 
gan. As we drew near Ltibeek, where a thirty-five 
minute stop was allowed for dinner in the station, 
and the stranger showed no signs of going back to his 
own compartment, I could see that the courier was 
becoming annoyed. Relapsing into silence he only 
broke it to reply to the " Dane " in monosyllables ; 
finally, to my surprise, the courier became dovmright 
rude. As the stranger, from the start, had been ex- 
tremely courteous, this rudeness surprised me, more 
so, as it seemed deliberate. Bludgeoned by obvious 
hints the stranger excused himself, and as soon as he 
was gone my companion leaned towards me. 

" You were surprised at my rudeness," he said, and 
then in an undertone; "it was deliberate." 

"I saw that. But why?" 

10 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

" Because/' he explained, "seeing we are Americans 
that fellow wanted to travel with us all the way 
through. He must have known that American com- 
pany is the best to be seen in over here these days. 
He might have made trouble for us.'' 

" Then you also think he's English? " 

"Think! Why they must have let him through at 
Warnemunde for a reason. He has a Danish pass- 
port right enough. I saw it in the inspection room. 
But I'll bet you anything there's a police spy in this 
train, undoubtedly in the same compartment with 
him." 

One felt uncomfortable. One thought that those 
police spies must dislike one even more now. 

"That means we may be suspected as being con- 
federates," I gloomily suggested. 

Whether he was getting back for my having guyed 
him about losing his papers I do not know, but the 
courier said we probably were suspected. Where- 
upon the book I tried to read became a senseless jum- 
ble of words and our compartment door became vastly 
more interesting. When would it open to admit the 
police spy? . . . Confound the luck! Everything 
breaking wrong. 

But at Ltibeck nothing happened — nothing to us. 
A train load of wounded had just come in and our 
hearts jumped at the sight of the men in the gray- 
green coats of the firing line, slowly climbing the long 
iron steps from the train platforms. Hurrying, we 
saw them go clumping down a long airy waiting room 
and as they approached the street their hobbling 

11 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

steps suddenly quickened to the sharper staccato of 
the canes upon which they leaned. Hurrying too, 
we saw there a vague mass of pallid faces in a dense 
crowd; some one waved a flag; — it stuck up con- 
spicuously above that throng ; — some one darted 
forth ; — ^^ Vater! " — '^ Liehes Miltterchen! ^' 

Past the burly handsturm, who was trying his ut- 
most to frown his jolly face into threatening lines that 
would keep back the crowd, a woman was scurrying. 
One of the big gray-green wounded men caught her 
in his arm — the other arm hung in a black sling — 
and she clung to him as though some one might take 
him away, and because she was a woman, she wept in 
her moment of happiness. Her Mann had come 
home. ... 

Forgetting the dinner we were to have eaten in the 
Liibeck station, we finally heeded a trainman's warn- 
ing and turned back to our car. There remained 
etched in my mind the line of pallid, apprehensive 
faces, the tiny waving flags, the little woman and 
the big man. It was my first sight of war. 

From Liibeck to Hamburg the ride was uneventful. 
The hour was not late and beyond remarking that 
the towns through which we passed were not as bril- 
liantly lighted as usual, the courier could from the car 
window observe no difference between the Germany of 
peace and of war. Here and there we noticed bridges 
and trestles patroled by Landtcehr and outside our 
compartment we read the handbill requesting every 
passenger to aid the government in preventing spies 
throwing explosives from the car windows. From the 

12 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

conductor we learned that there had been such at 
tempts to delay the passage of troop trains. Where- 
upon we congratulated ourselves upon buying the 
conductor, as we had the compartment to ourselves. 
One thought of what would have happened had there 
been an excitable German in with us and while the 
train was crossing a bridge, we had innocently opened 
a window for air ! 

It was almost ten when the close, clustered lights 
of Hamburg closed in against the trackside and we 
caught our first glimpse of the swarming Bahnhof. 
Soldiers everywhere. The blue of the Keservists, the 
gray -green of the Regulars — a shifting tide of color 
swept the length of the long platforms, rising against 
the black slopes of countless staircases, overrunning 
the vast halls above, increasing, as car after car 
emptied its load. And then, as at Ltibeck, we saw 
white bandages coming down under cloth-covered 
helmets and caps, or arms slung in black slings; the 
slightly wounded were coming in from the western 
front. 

All this time we had forgotten the Englishman, and 
it was with a start that we recalled him. 

" If he spots us,'' advised my companion, " we've 
got to hand him the cold shoulder. Mark my words, 
he'll try to trail along to the same hotel and stick like 
a leech." 

Again he was right. At the baggage room the Eng- 
lishman overtook us, suggesting that we make a party 
of it — he knew a gay cafe — first going to the hotel. 
He suggested the Atlantic. Bluntly he was informed 

13 



^ 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

we were visiting friends, but nothing would do then 
but we must agree to meet him in, say, an hour. Not 
until he found it an impossibility did he give us up 
and finally, with marvelous good nature, he said good 
night. The last I saw of him was his broad back 
disappearing through a door into a street. 

The courier nudged me. 

" Quick," he whispered, " look, — the man goiiig out 
the next door." 

Before I could turn I knew whom he meant. I saw 
only the man's profile before he too disappeared into 
the street; but it was a face difficult to forget, for it 
had been close to me at Warneniunde; it was the face 
of the police spy. 

" I told you they purposely let him get through," 
continued my friend. "That police fellow must have 
come down on the train from Warnemunde. I tell 
you it's best not to pick Up with any one these days. 
Suppose we had fallen for that Englishman and gone 
to a cafe with him to-night — a nice mess ! " 

It was in a restaurant a few hours later that I saw 
my first Iron Cross, black against a gray-green coat 
and dangling from a button. In Bieher^s, a typical 
better class caf6 of the new German type, luxurious 
with its marble walls and floors, and with little soft 
rugs underfoot and colored wicker tables and chairs, 
one felt the new spirit of this miracle of nations. On 
the broad landing of a wide marble staircase an or- 
chestra played soldier songs and above the musicians, 
looking down on his people, loomed a bust of Wilhelm 
II, Yon Gottes Gnecden, Kaiser von Deutschland, 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

About him, between the flags of Austria-Hungary and 
Turkey, blazed the black, white and red, and there 
where all might read, hung the proclamation of Au- 
gust to the German people. We had read it through 
to the last line : " Forwa/rd with God who will he 
with us ds he was with our Fathers !^^--^ when we 
heard an excited inflection in the murmurings from 
the many tables — '^ Das Eiserne Kreuz! ^' And we 
saw the officer from whose coat dangled the black 
maltese cross, outlined in silver. His cheeks flushed, 
proud of a limping, shot-riddled leg, proud of his 
Emperor's decoration, but prouder still that he was 
a German; he must have forgotten all of battle and 
suffering during that brief walk between the tables. 
Cheers rang out, then a song, and when finally the 
place quieted everybody stared at that little 
cross of black as though held by some hypnotic power. 

So ! We were Americans, he said when we finally 
were presented. That was good. We — that is — I 
had come to write of the war as seen from the German 
side. Good, sehr gut! He had heard the Allies, es- 
pecially the English, — Verfluehte Englanderschwein! 
— were telling many lies in the American newspa- 
pers. How could any intelligent man believe them? 

In his zeal for the German cause his Iron Cross, 
his one shattered leg, the consciousness that he was 
a hero, all were forgotten. Of course I wanted to 
hear his story — the story of that little piece of 
metal hanging from the black and white ribbon on 
his coat — but tenaciously he refused. That sur- 
prised me until I knew Prussian officers. 

15 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

So we left the man with the Iron Cross, marveling 
not at his modesty but that it embodied the spirit of 
the German army; whereas I thought I knew that 
spirit. But not until the next night, when I left Ham- 
burg behind, where every one was pretending to be 
busy and the nursemaids and visitors were still toss- 
ing tiny fish to the wintering gulls in the upper lake; 
not until the train was bringing me to Berlin did I 
understand what it meant. At the stations I went 
out and walked with the passengers and watched the 
crowds; I talked with a big business man of Ham- 
burg — bound for Berlin because he had nothing to 
do in Hamburg ; then it was I faintly began to grasp 
the tremendous emotional upheaval rumbling in every 
Germanic soul. 

My first impression of Berlin was the long cement 
platform gliding by, a dazzling brilliance of great arc 
lamps and a rumbling chorus of song. Pulling down 
the compartment window I caught the words ^^ Wir 
hdmpfen Mann fiir Mann, fur Kaiser und Reich! '' 
And leaning out I could see down at the other end of 
the Friederichstrasse Station a regiment going to the 
front. 

Flowers bloomed from the long black tubes from 
which lead was soon to pour; wreaths and garlands 
hung from cloth covered helmets ; cartridge belts and 
knapsacks were festooned with ferns. The soldiers 
were all smoking; cigars and cigarettes had been 
showered upon them with prodigal hand. Most of 
them held their guns in one hand and packages of 
delicacies in the other; and they were climbing into 

16 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

the compartments or hanging out of the windows 
singing, always singing, in the terrific German way. 
Later I was to learn that they went into battle with 
the " Wacht am Rhein " on their lips and a wonder- 
ful trust in God in their hearts. 

I felt that trust now. I saw it in the confident 
face of the young private who hung far out of the 
compartment in order to hold his wife's hand. It 
was not the way a conscript looks. This soldier's 
blue eyes sparkled as wdth a holy cause, and as I 
watched this man and wife I marveled at their sunny 
cheer. I saw that each was wonderfully proud of the 
other and that this farewell was but an incident in 
the sudden complexity of their lives. The Father- 
land had been attacked : her man must be a hero. It 
was all so easy, so brimming with confidence. Of 
course he would come back to her. . . . You believed 
in the Infinite ordering of things that he would. 

Walking on down the platform I saw another young 
man. They were all young, strapping fellows in their 
new uniforms of field gray. He was standing beside 
the train ; he seemed to want to put off entering the 
car until the last minute. He was holding a bundle 
of something white in his arms, something that he 
hugged to his face and kissed, while the woman in the 
cheap furs wept, and I wondered if it was because of 
the baby she cried, while that other childless young 
wife had smiled. 

Back in the crowd I saw a little woman with white 
hair; she was too feeble to push her way near the 
train. She was dabbing her eyes and waving to a 

17 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

big, mustached man wlio filled a compartment door 
and who shouted jokes to her. And almost before 
they all eould realize it, the train was slipping down 
the tracks; the car windows filled with singing men, 
the long gray platform suddenly shuffling to the pat- 
ter of men's feet, as though they would all run after 
the train as far as they could go. But the last car 
slipped away and the last waving hand fell weakly 
against a woman's side. They seemed suddenly old, 
even the young wife, as they slowly walked away. 
Theirs was not the easiest part to play in the days of 
awful waiting while the young blood of the nation 
poured out to turn a hostile country red. 

I thought I had caught the German spirit at Lti- 
beck and at the caf^ in Hamburg when the hero of 
the Iron Cross had declined to tell me his tale; but 
this sensation that had come with my setting foot on 
the Berlin station — this was something different. 
Fifteen hundred men going off to what? — God only 
knows ! — fifteen hundred virile types of this nation 
of virility; and they had laughed and they had sung, 
and they had kissed their wives and brothers and 
babies as though these helpless ones should only be 
proud that their little household was helping their 
Fatherland and their Emperor. Self? It was ut- 
terly submerged. On that station platform I realized 
that there is but one self in all Germany to-day and 
that is the soul of the nation. Nothing else matters ; 
a sacrifice is commonplace. Wonderful? Yes. But 
then we Americans fought that way at Lexington; 
any nation can fight that way when it is a thing of 

18 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

the heart; and this war is all of the heart in Ger^ 
many. As we walked through the station gates I 
understood why three million Socialists who had 
fought their Emperor in and out of the Reichstag, 
suddenly rallied to his side, agreeing " I know no par- 
ties, only Germans." I felt as I thought of the young 
faces of the soldiers, cheerfully starting down into the 
unknown hell of war, that undoubtedly among their 
number were Socialists. In this national crisis 
partizan allegiance counted for nothing, they had 
ceased dealing with the Fatherland in terms of the 
mind and gave to it only the heart. 

Even in Berlin I realized that war stalks down 
strange by-paths. It forever makes one feel the in- 
congruous. It disorders life in a monstrous way. I 
have seen it in an instant make pictures that the 
greatest artist would have given his life to have done. 
It likes to deal in contrasts; it is jolting. ... 

With General von Loebell I walked across the 
Doeberitz camp, which is near Berlin. At Doeberitz 
new troops were being drilled for the front. We 
walked towards a dense grove of pines above which 
loomed the sky, threateningly gray. Between the 
trees I saw the flash of yellow flags; a signal squad 
was drilling. Skirting the edge of the woods we came 
to a huge, cleared indentation where twenty dejected 
English prisoners were leveling the field for a parade 
ground. On the left I saw an opening in the trees; 
a wagon trail wound away between the pines. And 
then above the rattling of the prisoners' rakes I heard 
the distant strains of a marching song that brought 

19 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

a lump to my throat. Back there in the woods some- 
where, some one had started a song; and countless 
voices took up the chorus; and through the trees I 
saw a moving line of gray-green and down the road 
tramped a company of soldiers. They were all sing- 
ing and their boyish voices blended with forceful 
beauty. " In the Heimat ! In the Heimat ! '' It was 
the favorite medley of the German army. 

The prisoners stopped work ; unconsciously some of 
those dispirited figures in British khaki stiffened. 
And issuing from the woods in squads of fours, all 
singing, tramped the young German reserves, swing- 
ing along not fifteen feet from the prison gang in 
olive drab — " In the Heimat ! " And out across the 
Doeberitz plains they swung, big and snappy. 

" They're ready," remarked General von Loebell. 
" They've just received their field uniforms.'' 

And then there tramped out of the woods another 
company, and another, two whole regiments, the last 
thundering " Die Wacht am Rhein," and we went 
near enough to see the pride in their faces, the excite- 
ment in their eyes; near enough to see the English- 
men, young lads, too, who gazed after the swinging 
column with a soldier's understanding, but being pris- 
oners and not allowed to talk, they gave no expres- 
sion to their emotions and began to scrape their rakes 
over the hard ground. ... 

I stood on the Dorotheenstrasse looking up at the 
old red brick building which before the second of 
August in this year of the world war was the War 
Academy. I had heard that when tourists come to 

20 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

Berlin they like to watch the gay uniformed offi- 
cers ascending and descending the long flights of gray 
steps; for there the cleverest of German military 
youths are schooled for the General Staff. Like the 
tourists, I stood across the street to-day and watched 
the old building and the people ascending or descend- 
ing the long flights of gray steps. Only I saw civil- 
ians, men alone and in groups, women with shawls 
wrapped around their heads, women with yellow 
topped boots, whose motors waited beside the curb, 
and children, clinging to the hands of women, all 
entering or leaving by the gray gate ; some of the faces 
were happy and others were wet with tears, and still 
others stumbled along with heavy steps. For this 
old building on Dorotheenstrasse is no longer the War 
Academy ; it is a place where day after day hundreds 
assemble to learn the fate of husband, kin or lover. 
For inside the gray gate sits the Information Bureau 
of the War Ministry, ready to tell the truth about 
every soldier in the German army! I, too, went to 
learn the truth. 

I climbed a creaking staircase and went down a 
creaking hall. I met the Count von Schwerin, who 
is in charge. I found myself in a big, high-ceilinged 
room the walls of which were hung with heroic por- 
traits of military dignitaries. My first impression 
was of a wide arc of desks that circling from wall to 
wall seemed to be a barrier between a number of gen- 
tle spoken elderly gentlemen and a vague mass of 
people that pressed forward. The anxious faces of 
all these people reminded me of another crowd that 

21 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

I had seen — -the crowd outside the White Star of- 
fices in New York when the Titamo went down. And 
I became conscious that the decorations of this room 
which, the Count was explaining, was the Assembly 
Hall of the War Academy, were singularly appro- 
priate—the pillars and walls of gray marble, op- 
pressively conveying a sense of coldness, insistent 
cold, like a tomb, and all around you the subtle pres- 
ence of death, the death of hopes. It was the Hall 
of Awful Doubt. 

And as I walked behind the circle of desks I learned 
that these men of tact and sympathy, too old for ac- 
tive service, were doing their part in the war by help- 
ing to soften with kindly offices the blow of fate. I 
stood behind them for some few moments and 
watched, although I felt like one trespassing upon the 
privacy of grief. I saw in a segment of the line a fat, 
plain-looking woman, with a greasy child clinging to 
her dress, a white haired man with a black muffler 
wrapped around his neck, a veiled woman, who from 
time to time begged one of the elderly clerks to hurry 
the news of her husband, and then a wisp of a girl in 
a cheap, rose-'colored coat, on whose cheeks two dabs 
of rouge burned like coals. 

Soldiers from the Berlin garrison were used there 
as runners. At the bidding of the gentle old men 
they hastened off with the inquiry to one of the many 
filing rooms and returned with the news. This day 
there was a new soldier on duty ; he was new to the 
Hall of Awful Doubt. 

^* I cannot imagine what is keeping him so long," 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

I heard an elderly clerk tell the woman with the veil. 
" He'll come any minute. . . . There he is now. Ex- 
cuse me, please.'' 

And the elderly clerk hurried to meet the soldier, 
wanting to intercept the news, if it were bad, and 
break it gently. But as he caught sight of the clerk 
I saw the soldier click his heels and, as if he were 
delivering a message to an officer, his voice boomed 
out: ''Tot!'' . . . Dead! 

And the woman with the veil gave a little gasp, a 
long, low moan, and they carried her to another room ; 
and as I left the gray room, with the drawn, anxious 
faces pushing forward for their turns at the black- 
covered desks, I realized the heartrending sacrifice of 
the w^omen of France, Belgium, Russia, England, Ser- 
via, and Austria, who, like these German mothers, 
wives, and sweethearts, had been stricken down in the 
moment of hope. 

That night I went to the Jagerstrasse, to Maxim's. 
The place is everything the name suggests; one of 
those Berlin cafes that open when the theaters are 
coming out and close when the last girl has smiled 
and gone off with the last man. I sat in a white and 
gold room with a cynical German surgeon, listening 
to his comments. 

" It is the best in town now," he explained. " All 
the Palais de Danse girls come here. Don't be in a 
hurry. I know what you want for your articles. 
You'll see it soon." 

Maxim's, like most places of the sort, was method- 
ically banal. But one by one officers strolled in and 

23 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

soon a piano struck up the notes of a patriotic song. 
When the music began the girls left the little tables 
where they had been waiting for some man to smile, 
and swarmed around the piano, singing one martial 
song upon another, while officers applauded, drank 
their healths, and asked them to sing again. 

Time passed and the girls sang on, flushed and sav- 
age as the music crashed to the cadenzas of war. 
What were the real emotions of these subjects of 
Germany; had the war genuine thrills for them? I 
had talked with decent women of all classes about the 
war; what of the women whose hectic lives had de- 
stroyed real values? 

" Get one of those girls over here," I told the sur- 
geon, " and ask her what she thinks of the war.'' 

" Do you really mean it? " he said with a cynical 
smile. 

" Surely. This singing interests me. I wonder 
what's back of it? " 

He called one of them. ^^ Why not sing? " Hilda 
said with a shrug. " What else? There are few men 
here now and there are fewer every night. What do I 
think of this war? My officer's gone to the front 
without leaving me enough to keep up the apartment. 
Kriegf Krieg istschrecMich! War is terrible ! " 

My German friend was laughing. 

" War? " he smiled. " And you thought it was 
going to change that kind." 

But I was thinking of the woman with the veil 
whom I had seen in the Hall of Awful Doubt; and 
outside the night air felt cool and clean. . . . 

24 



THE THRESHOLD OF WAR 

But my symbol of Berlin is not these things — not 
bustling streets filled with motors, swarming with 
able-bodied men whom apparently the army did not 
yet need. Its summation is best expressed by the 
varied sights and emotions of an afternoon in mid- 
December. 

Lodz has fallen ; again Hindenburg has swept back 
the Kussian hordes. Black-shawled women call the 
extras. Berlin rises out of its calmness and goes mad. 
Magically the cafes fill. ... I am walking down a 
side street. I see people swarming toward a faded 
yellow brick church. They seem fired with a zealot's 
praise. I go in after them and see them fall on their 
knees. . . . They are thanking Him for the Russian 
rout. . . . Wondering I go out. I come to another 
church. Its aisles are black with bowed backs; the 
murmur of prayer drones like bees ; a robed minister 
is intoning: 

" Oh, Almighty Father, we thank Thee that Thou 
art with us in our fight for the right ; we thank Thee 
that — " 

It is very quiet in there. War seems a thing in- 
credibly far away. The sincerity of these people grips 
your heart. I feel as I never felt in church before. 
Something mysteriously big and reverent stirs all 
around. . . . Then outside in the street drums rat- 
tle, feet thump. A regiment is going to the front! 
I hurry to see it go by, but back in the church the 
bowed forms pray on. 



25 



II 

"THE BELOVED KING" 

Being impressions gained during my talk with His 
Majesty King Ludwig of Bavaria 

Iv NO WING what was in the wind when the sum- 
mons came that night, I hurried down Unter den 
Linden and through Wilhelmstrasse to the Foreign 
Office. Several days before, Excellence Freiherr von 
Mumm had discussed the possibilities with me and as 
the old-fashioned portal of the Foreign Office swung 
back to admit me, I wondered if the news would be 
good or bad. Without delay I was ushered into the 
office of Dr. Roediger. He was just laying the tele- 
phone aside. 

" It has been arranged," he said. " I was just talk- 
ing with Mtinchen. You are to leave Berlin to-night 
on the 10.40 train. Upon your arrival in Mtinchen in 
the morning, you will go to the Hotel Vierjahrzeiten. 
At ten in the morning present yourself to Excellence 
Baron von Schon at the Prussian Embassy in Mtin- 
chen. He will inform you as to the details. At 
twelve o'clock His Majesty, the King of Bayern, will 
be pleased to receive you. . . . Adieu and good luck." 

Thanking Dr. Roediger for the arrangement — with 
true German thoroughness they had laid out a perfect 

26 



" THE BELOVED KING " 

schedule for me, even to the hotel at which I was to 
stop in Mtinchen — I had a race of it to get packed 
and catch the train. But once in the compartment, 
with the train whirling away from Berlin, I had a 
chance to collect my thoughts. So, His Majesty 
would no doubt talk with me upon some subject of 
interest to Americans. I ran over half a dozen of 
these in my mind, but King Ludwig's personality kept 
obtruding. What sort of a man was he? I had seen 
an excellent colored photograph of him in a gallery 
in Unter den Linden. It was one of those pictures 
which make you wonder at the reality and in this case 
made me anticipate the meeting with unrestrained 
keenness. I remembered that he had waited long for 
the throne, that it had not descended to him until 
September of 1913, that he had been crowned King 
of his beloved Bayern at the regal age of sixty-eight. 
I recalled that his house, the house of Wittelsbacher, 
was the oldest in Germany, the line going back to the 
year 907. King Ludwig, ruler of that southern Ger- 
man land where so many Americans like to go, his 
home in Munich, which every American sooner or 
later comes to admire for its famous galleries and 
golden brown Mtinchener beer; King Ludwig, what 
would be his message to the United States? 

Ten o'clock the following morning found me shak- 
ing hands with Baron von Schon, the Prussian Am- 
bassador to Bavaria. It was the Baron who was Ger- 
many's Ambassador to France at the outbreak of 
war, and how I regretted that obligations of his diplo- 
matic position forbade a discussion of those frantic 

27 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

nights and days in Paris before the war. We could 
talk of other things, however, and as there were two 
hours before the appointed time of my presentation 
to King Ludwig, Baron von Schon helped me to get 
my bearings. To my consternation I learned that the 
King spoke only a little English. I informed the 
Baron that I spoke only a little German. Whereupon 
immediately the Geheimrat's office in the Embassy 
began to ring with one telephone call after another, 
for an interpreter had to be secured, a man w^hom His 
Majesty would be pleased to receive with me. And 
finally such a man was found in Counselor of Lega- 
tion von Stockhammern. 

After motoring down a long avenue, lined with 
pretty residences, the car turned in, approaching a 
rather old, unpretentious but severely dignified build- 
ing of faded yellow brick, suggesting Windsor. This 
was the Wittelsbacher Palast, the home of King Lud- 
wig. I remembered having seen that morning on my 
way to the Embassy, a far more imposing looking 
palace, the Kesidence, and contrasting its ornateness 
with the simplicity of the building which w^e were 
approaching, I wondered at royalty living there. It 
was typical of the democratic King I came to know. 

As our motor rolled up, I saw two blue and white 
striped sentry boxes marking the entrance and 
through an arched driveway I had a glimpse of an in- 
ner court paved with stones, where an official auto- 
mobile waited. Then I was escorted through the en- 
trance to the right wing of the palace. Here Staats- 
rat (Secretary of the Eoyal Cabinet) von Dandl, a 

28 




O 

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be 



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c 

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o 




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c 



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<J 

O 



CEi 



" THE BELOVED KING " 

tall, soldierly looking man in uniform, greeted us, 
after which I was taken to an antechamber, where 
Counselor of Legation von Stockhammern, my in- 
terpreter, was waiting. There appeared a young Ba- 
varian officer in full dress uniform, whom I was told 
was the Adjutantour to the King. Upon being in- 
troduced he left as quickly as he had come. It lacked 
a quarter hour of the time of reception, and Von 
Stockhammern and I were talking about Mtinchen, 
when the young Adjutantour as quickly returned and 
said that His Majesty would receive me. 

I climbed with Von Stockhammern several flights 
of a wooden staircase; the tan and red bordered 
corded runaway reminded you of a church, as did 
the bare white walls, and you felt a solemn silence, 
accentuated by the jangling of the sword; and then 
turning with a last flight of steps, I saw above two 
guards in the uniform of the Hartschier Eegiment, 
two white coated, blue trousered, plumed statues 
standing beside a wide entrance door. The click of 
presenting arms and the statues came to life, and 
passing between them we found ourselves in what was 
evidently an antechamber of the Audience Saal, a 
comfortably furnished room; the walls covered with 
small oil paintings. I remember a silk-stockinged, 
stooping doorman who wore black satin breeches, like 
a character that I had seen sometime in a French 
romantic play. He was standing with his hand upon 
the knob of two brown oaken doors as if awaiting a 
signal. Apparently it came, although I heard noth- 
ing, for suddenly the brown doors swung back, and I 

29 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

found myself gazing into the long high-ceilinged room, 
the Audience Saal, and in the middle of this room 
stood an elderly man, in the dress uniform of an offi- 
cer in the Second Bavarian Infantry. The uniform 
was blue and red and braided with gold, and the man 
had a white beard and a wonderfully kind face. It 
was His Majesty King Ludwig of Bavaria. 

My first thought, as I walked towards him, was of 
how closely he resembled the picture I had seen of him 
in the gallery on Unter den Linden. But as I drew 
nearer, I saw that the picture had not caught the 
man. You were conscious of kind eyes smiling a wel- 
come through silver spectacles. You instantly felt 
that kindness seemed to be a dominant note of his 
character, and you realized the intellectual power 
behind that wide, thoughtful forehead; and you saw 
a firm mouth and chin suggesting determination, 
kindness, brains, force, every inch a king ! But some- 
how, had I not known he was a king, the military regi- 
mentals which he wore might have been a little incon- 
gruous ; he impressed me as being the kind of man you 
might expect to see in the black coated garb of a pro- 
fessor; a man of great, grave and forceful dignity 
and learning, and utterly foreign to the popular Amer- 
ican conception of a monarch. 

This impression was borne out a moment later, 
when as Staatsrat von Dandl came forward to present 
me. King Ludwig showed me a delightful courtesy. 
Casting court etiquette aside, he welcomed me in true 
American fashion, his hand outstretched. 

There began then the usual preliminaries to a con- 

30 



"THE BELOVED KING" 

versation and while we exchanged greetings, I noticed 
that His Majesty was wearing a great number of 
minor orders, strung in a bright ribboned line across 
his chest, and beneath them, on the left side, the Iron 
Cross, the Star of St. Hubertus, and the Order of the 
Crown. Presently, in a pleasantly modulated voice. 
King Ludwig told me that through his people he had 
long felt a great friendship for America. 

" All Germany has been deeply touched by the many 
kindnesses of your country since the beginning of the 
war. You have been so thoughtful,- ' he said. " You 
have sent us your wonderful Red Cross doctors and 
nurses. Throughout the empire we have heard ex- 
pressions of good will from your visiting countrymen. 
We have felt the spirit that prompted the gifts of the 
American children which came through your Mr. 
O'Loughlin to the children of Germany. Especially 
have we been touched here in Mtinchen, where your 
wonderful hospital is, and where we have so many 
Americans. Between Germany and the United States 
there exists a strong bond through commercial rela- 
tions, but between your country and Bavaria there is 
something more intimate. It is because so many of 
your countrymen come here. They like the Wagner- 
festspiel, they are so fond of German music and our 
Bavarian art. They like to spend their summers 
among us. They get to know us and we them. You 
have no idea how many Americans live here in Mtin- 
chen. And they find here the high regard in which 
your country is held. They find that two of the best 
artists of their own nation. Miss Fay and Miss 

31 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Walker, both Americans, are regarded as the best 
artists in the Mtinchen Opera, and our people hold 
them in great esteem. They are received in court so- 
ciety, and are very well seen.'' 

The subject of America made the King enthusi- 
astic and the sincere ring of his voice and the warmth 
of his smile increased as he spoke. So I took the op- 
portunity of asking His Majesty a question so many 
of my countrymen are thinking. What of America 
and war? 

"America need fear no war," he replied quickly, 
adding, " No war on your own soil. Geographically 
you are safe. You have only two neighbors, Canada 
and Mexico." And the King smiled. ^^ We, on the 
other hand, are surrounded by enemies who are pow- 
erful. You have the Pacific between you and your 
adversaries." 

King Ludwig's omission of the Atlantic Ocean 
struck me as being significant. He seemed to take 
it for granted that we could have but one adversary 
— that yellow octopus of the Far East. Whereupon 
I mentioned something which had come to me in Ber- 
lin concerning certain islands in the Pacific. For a 
moment King Ludwig looked grave, and then he said 
slowly : " America needs no large army ; if she should 
need one she can make it quickly. She has already 
shown that. To attack her on her home soil is not 
practical, but she should have a large navy. I have 
heard many compliments of your American navy, of 
its equipment, discipline and gunnery ; but it must be 
kept large." 

32 



" THE BELOVED KING " 

" So you think, Your Majesty, that we are safe from 
war? '' 

" On your home soil, yes," he repeated, " but your 
navy must be strong. When war will come, you can 
never tell. But you must never fear war. We knew 
over here that this war was coming. We have long 
known it. We have always wanted peace. For 
forty-one years I myself have been working for peace, 
but we have always been surrounded by jealous neigh- 
bors. Last January I spoke at a dinner given in 
honor of the anniversary of the birthday of His 
Majesty Emperor Wilhelm 11. I said then that we 
do not wish a war, but that the German people have 
always shown that they do not fear war.'' 

I reflected what there was in the European situa- 
tion of January, 1913, to make King Ludwig talk of 
that time, in a way which suggested the close prox- 
imity of this war. And I asked him concerning that 
situation. 

" Yes, we knew war was coming,'' he admitted 
gravely. " Last winter the great debates were going 
on in the French parliament over the question of 
changing the term of military service from two to 
three years. We could not understand that. The 
extra years would increase the annual strength of the 
French army fully fifty per cent. It was ominous. 
Then we knew that Eussia had nine hundred thousand 
men under arms whose term of service had expired 
and who had every right to return to their homes. 
Why were they not sent? Yes, we knew it was com- 
ing, but we did not fear it, and Germany will fight 

33 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

to the last drop of blood. You have but to see the 
spirit of our troops and the spirit of the recruits, dis- 
appointed because their offers to serve in the army 
are rejected. We do not need every recruit now, and 
as we do take new men, there are hundreds of thou- 
sands more, ready to serve the Fatherland — to the 
end.'^ 

" And when will the end be? " I asked His Majesty. 
When would peace be declared? The King smiled, 
but it was a smile of reluctance. 

^' Who can say? " Then that Imperial chin sud- 
denly seemed made of stone, and there was fire in his 
eyes. He declared : " There will be no end to this 
war until we have peace conditions which we shall 
judge to be worthy of our nation and worthy of our 
sacrifice. This war was forced upon us. We shall go 
through w^ith it. We do not finish until we have an 
uncontestable victory. The heart and soul of the 
whole country is in this fight. Between all the Ger- 
man kings and confederated princes, there is abso- 
lute unswerving unity. We are one idea, one hope, 
one ideal, one wish." 

Instantly I thought of the Socialists. We had 
heard in America there could be no war. We had 
been told that the German Socialists would not let 
their country go to war. 

The King smiled, for it was obviously inconceivable 
to him. " We Germans," he explained, " quarrel be- 
tween ourselves in peaceful times, but when we are 
surrounded by enemies, we are one. And the Social- 
ists know that war was as much against our plans as 

34 



" THE BELOVED KING " 

it was against theirs. In times of stress, Germany is 
always a united nation. Beside the Fatherland, 
dogmas are trivial. We Germans like to talk. We 
are great philosophers. We go deep into things, but 
it is against our racial instincts to let our own indi- 
vidualism come before the welfare of the State. It is 
because we have deep national pride that we are one 
people to-day." 

" And, Your Majesty, after the war? " I asked, 
" what then ? Is it to be the last war of the world, 
so terrible that humanity will not tolerate another? " 

" This is for each nation to say,'' he replied gravely. 
" Our hands are clean. For more than forty years 
we have worked for the peace of Europe, and there 
have been times when, had our policy been such, it 
might have been to our advantage to go to war. Our 
hands are clean," he repeated. " They brought this 
upon us. We did not want it. After it is over, we 
shall rebuild. I foresee an era of great prosperity for 
our country. We shall not be impoverished. Many 
of our industries are working day and night now. 
Until last August they were busy with the products 
of peace; now it is with the products of war. So 
many skilled workmen are needed to-day that we can- 
not take them from the shops to send them to the 
front, even though their regiments go. And after the 
war the factories will all go on as before, manufac- 
turing the things of peace, and those other industries 
which are closed now will be doubly busy. War, no 
matter how severe it may be, cannot check the com- 
mercial growth of a country like Germany." 

35 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

When King Ludwig spoke of the industrial future, 
it was the voice of one who had given deep study to 
everything of vital importance to his country. 

Baron von Schon had told me that all his life King 
Ludwig had been a hard worker, that political econ- 
omy, agriculture, industry, waterways, were all sub- 
jects which fascinated him, that most of His Majesty's 
evenings were spent attending conferences, given by 
the specialized learned men in every branch of a na- 
tion's prosperity. 

I mentioned the wonderful spirit of the Bavarian 
troops I had seen, and His Majesty's face grew bright. 

" I have two sons at the front," he said proudly. 
" Prince Francis, commander of a brigade. He was 
wounded in Flanders, but he will be back before the 
war is over; and as you know. Crown Prince Rup- 
precht is also fighting in the West." 

And I thought that an expression of longing crossed 
that kindly face, as though the King wished he could 
be there too. 

" I also am wounded," he said with a smile, " but 
that was long ago — 1866." 

The conversation changed ; it became more personal. 
Like most Americans, King Ludwig showed himself 
to be thoroughly fond of sport. He told me that he 
liked all forms of outdoor sports and admired Amer- 
ica for its almost national participation in them. 
He spoke of his fondness for sailing, and horses, of 
yacht races on the Sternberger See. He mentioned 
with enjoyment his great stables, where personally he 
concerns himself with the breeding of his own horses, 

36 



" THE BELOVED KING " 

taking a great pride in them whenever they race. He 
told me of his farm, Leutstetten, near Miinchen, where 
he likes to spend the summers, living an outdoor life. 

Further expressing again his warm feeling of 
friendship — a friendship deeper than that dictated 
by the rules of mere international courtesy, for it has 
come from the Americans who have lived from time 
to time in Bavaria — King Ludwig concluded our 
talk with the message of German's deep and sincere 
friendship to the people of the United States. 

We shook hands again; it was an American fare- 
well. The dapper Adjutant came into the room, and 
I bid His Majesty ^' Adieu." My last impression was 
of his straight uniformed figure standing in the center 
of the room, across his breast the Iron Cross and the 
Order of St. Hubertus; then the oaken doors closed. 
Back into the little antechamber with the countless 
oil paintings, back through the austere reception hall, 
past the white coated, white plumed Hartschier 
guards, down the great staircase, and with Legation 
Counselor von Stockhammern, I was escorted into a 
motor. As we drove down to the Promenade Platz, 
where I was to call at the Foreign Ministry of Ba- 
varia, I asked the Counselor about the Wittelsbacher 
jraiasu. 

" It is the palace," he said, " where the King has 
lived all his life, and which he does not like at all to 
leave. When he became King two years ago, he did 
not change in his tastes. Only on the occasion of 
great ceremony is he to be seen in the Residence, where 
lived the former King of Bavaria." 

37 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

And I understood now what I had heard before, that 
King Ludwig was fond only of a simple life, and that 
he loved only work, and family happiness; and I 
thought that here was no case of mere birth making 
a man high in the land, for Ludwig of Wittelsbacher 
would have made his way if he had been born outside 
the purple; and I thought of something I had heard, 
how a Bavarian Socialist had once said that though 
his party might battle against the Government, they 
could never battle against King Ludwig. 

" Everybody in Bayern supports King Ludwig with 
all their heart," Von Stockhammern was saying. 

" I know now why you Bavarians love him," I re- 
plied. 



38 



Ill 

TO THE WEST FRONT 

J\ NOTE from Dr. Roediger of the Foreign Office 
directed me to report early in January at ten o'clock 
at that building on Moltkestrasse and Konigsplatz, 
where lives and works that marvelous central organ- 
ization of the German army, the Great General Staff. 
There I found waiting Dawson, the photographer who 
had accompanied me from America, and a plump, 
smiling, philosophical Austrian, Theyer, a Cino-oper- 
ator who was to go along with Dawson and make 
" movies " of the front. 

Climbing endless wooden stairways in the old build- 
ing, I was finally shown into a room that only lacked 
wax flowers under glass to recall the Rutherford B. 
Hayes period of interior decorating. Presently the 
door opened to admit an officer whom I liked at the 
first glimpse, and in his careful, groping English Ober- 
Lieutenant Herrmann of the Grosser General Stab 
introduced himself. He explained that he would ac- 
company us on our trip to the front and bring us back 
to Berlin ; whereupon I blessed the Staff for giving me 
an officer with merry eyes and delightful personality. 
He would do everything in his power — not small as 
I later learned — to have me shown the things I 

39 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

wanted to see in that forbidden city, the army front. 

That afternoon I bought a dunnage bag such as 
navy men the world over use, and remembering Ober- 
Lieutenant Herrmann's advice to carry as little as 
possible, I packed only a change of boots, socks, under- 
clothing, and flannel shirts. Come to think of it, an 
elaborate series of cloth maps, each a minutely de- 
scribed small district of the whole Western front, 
took up as much room as anything else. And as I 
had heard officers say that a hypodermic with a 
shot of morphine was good to carry in case one w^as 
hit, that went in, too. During our conversation at 
the General Staff, Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann had em- 
phasized the point that it must be understood that 
this trip I was about to make was entirely upon my 
own responsibility. A suit of army gray green was 
desirable and a hat or gloves of a similar neutral 
color, prevented me from being a conspicuous mark. 

I think I was at Anhalter Bahnhof the next night 
half an hour before the gate opened for the Metz 
train. There were no sleeping compartments avail- 
able, so securing a day compartment to themselves, 
Dawson and Theyer withdrew to concoct a series of 
movie narratives, while the Ober-Lieutenant induced 
the conductor to lock me up with him in a nearby com- 
partment meant for four. After the train had pulled 
out we discussed the war between the United States 
and Japan, which all well informed people whom I 
have met in Germany, diplomatic, naval, and army, 
believe must soon come. For the first time 1 noticed 
that the Ober-Lieutenant's uniform was different from 

40 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

any of the thousands of uniforms that I had seen in 
Germany; trimmed with blue of a shade that I had 
never before noticed, and across his left chest I ob- 
served an order, and that was also as totally different, 
a bar about four inches long and one inch high, wound 
with the black and white of the iron cross and yel- 
low and red. Pinned to it were two golden bars, 
bearing strange words : Heroland, and some out- 
landish word that I have forgotten. 

" You're puzzled at my uniform," smiled the Ober- 
Lieutenant. " It does not surprise me. There are 
but two others in Germany. My uniform is that of 
the regiment of German Southwest Africa. The Em- 
peror created it a special regiment after our campaign 
there.'' And I found myself looking at the tiny 
golden bars, and wondering what deeds of daring 
this merry-eyed man had performed there. His 
medals bore now the names of battles in Africa. 
" My regiment," he explained, " is still in Africa. 
Since August I have been with the General Staff in 
Berlin." 

We talked long that night, while the train rushed 
towards the Southwest. He told me of his expe- 
riences in German Southwest Africa, and of the ways 
of the natives there. We slept that night, each 
sprawled out on a compartment seat, and I awoke 
with a huge arc lamp glaring through the window. 
My watch showed seven and when I drowsily heard 
the Ober-Lieutenant say that we were in Frankfort, 
and that the train stopped half an hour, and would I 
like to get out for coffee? 

41 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

I rubbed open my eyes. We passed the photo- 
graphers' compartment, to find them both asleep, but 
then photographers in warring Germany can have 
nothing but easy consciences ; they see so little. 

Long after day had broken — with the photogra- 
phers still sleeping — we passed the brown mountains 
of the Rhine, and at Bingen, where we saw the old 
robber's castle clinging to the cliffs, with the 
watch tower on an islet below, the train stopped. 
Opening one of the wide car windows we saw a com- 
motion under a shed of new boards, and there 
swarmed forth the women of Bingen, with pails of 
smoking coffee and trays of sandwiches. We saw 
them crowding past, and then by stretching our necks 
we were able to see, three cars down, one after an- 
other helmeted head and gray-green pair of shoulders 
pop forth, while the women smiled happily and passed 
up the coffee and bread. 

" I think a car full of soldiers for the front was 
joined on during the night," observed Herrmann. 

Our train passed through Lorraine which those who 
generalize like to tell us was the cause of this war, 
forgetting Lombard Street and Honest John Bull. 
I had heard how they hated the Germans, these people 
of Lorraine, but at every station there were the women 
and girls with the cans of coffee and the plates of 
Butterhrot. One saw no poverty there, only neat, 
clean little houses — no squalor. Germany is wise in 
the provisions made for the contentment of her work- 
ing classes. 

We drew near Metz, cupped by the distant blue ring 

42 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

of the fortified Vosges where last August the army of 
the Crown Prince smashed the French invasion. I 
saw beside a road four graves and four wooden 
crosses and wondered if on one of those broiling sum- 
mer days, a gray motor of the Eed Cross had not 
stopped there to bury the wounded. A field flew by, 
serried with trenches that rotated like the spokes of 
a great wheel; but the trenches were empty and the 
road that followed the wire fence close by the tracks, 
was bare of soldiers. There was no need longer for 
trenches, or that barbed entanglement of rusted wire, 
for the guns rumbled now far beyond the guardian 
hills. 

The shadows of a domed station fell over the train, 
likewise the shadows of supervision, for I was to see 
none of the fortifications of Metz. Historic Metz 
that guards the gate to Germany by the south, was 
not for a foreigner's eyes. For only ten minutes was 
I in Metz and, although it was the natural thing to 
do to spend them waiting on the station platform, I 
had a feeling, though, that had I wished otherwise 
and attempted to go out into the city, a soldier would 
have barred the way. Never, not even in the captured 
French and Belgium cities that I later saw, did I 
gain the impression of such intense watchfulness as 
prevailed at Metz. 

" We are going to the Great Headquarters now," 
said Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann, explaining for the 
first time our destination. Whereupon, I forgot my 
disappointment at not seeing Metz, and wondered if 
he had not deliberately withheld this as a surprise 

43 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

for me. The Great Headquarters! You thought of 
it as the place of mystery. In Berlin you remembered 
hearing it spoken of only vaguely, its location never 
named. You had heard it kept in darkness, that all 
lighted windows were covered, lest French flyers seek 
it by night. You knew that from the Great Head- 
quarters three hundred miles of battle line were di- 
rected; that it was the birthplace of stratagems; the 
council table around which sat the Falkenheim, Chief 
of the General Staff, Tirpitz, ruler of the Navy. Per- 
haps the Emperor was there ! 

I think I must have turned over in my mind for half 
an hour a certain question, before deciding that it 
was not a breach of military etiquette to put it to 
Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann. 

" Where,'' I finally asked, " is the Great Headquar- 
ters located? " 

" At Charleville," he promptly answered. '^ We 
shall not arrive there until evening." And then, get- 
ting out a number of those marvelous maps of the 
General Staff that show every tree, fence and brook, 
in the desired district, he traced for me the route the 
train was following. " We cross the Frontier into 
France, just beyond Fentsch and then go diagonally 
northwest through Longuion, Montmedy and Sedan 
to Charleville. We are going behind the battle line, 
out of artillery range, of course, but still the French 
flyers watch this line," and Herrmann bent down to 
glance towards the sky. " We may get some excite- 
ment." 

There is something discomfortingly casual in the 

44 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

way these Prussian officers talk of danger, and from 
the moment I saw the frontier post, with its barber- 
pole stripings, slip by unguarded, and realized that 
frontier guards were a thing of the past and that I 
w^as now with the invaders in France, I could not 
help but feel that an aeroplane bomb was the thing 
to be expected. 

We passed, on a siding, a troop train filled with 
new troops from Bavaria. One of the compartment 
doors was open and I saw that the floor was strewn 
with straw. The soldiers grinned and waved to us 
and pointed to the blue and white streamers so that 
we might know from what part of Germany they 
came. 

When we were approaching Audun le Roman, 
which is just across the frontier on the road to Pierre- 
pont, I saw on a hill not a quarter of a mile from the 
train a row of gray plastered houses. Through them, 
the gray sky showed in ragged, circular patches, 
framed by the holes in their walls. Sunken roofs, 
shattered floors, heaps of black debris, the charred 
walls gaping with shell holes; beside one house, a 
garden surprisingly green for so early in the year, 
serenely impassive to the story of the ruined walls — 
that row of little houses was as a guidepost. At last 
we followed the road to war. 

I saw in the next field a black swarm of birds peck- 
ing at the plowed ground. Plow furrows? One 
wondered. . . . For a mile we did not see a living 
thing, only the black birds, that feed on death. 

" This place," observed Ober-Lieu tenant Herrmann, 

45 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

whose face seemed to have lost some of the former 
indifference to war, " was apparently under heavy ar- 
tillery fire when the Crown Prince invaded towards 
Longwy." 

At Pierrepont I saw the first formal sign of the 
German occupation. Near the railroad station in a 
little square, where you could not miss it, loomed a 
large wooden sign, that began with ^^ nichts '^ and 
ended with ^^ verhoten/^ Then the train passed over 
a trestle and across the dirty little road that ran be- 
neath. I saw a German soldier hurrying towards a 
squatty peasant house. I could see the door open 
and a blue-smocked old man appear on the threshold. 
Why had the soldier hurried towards him ; what was 
the old man saying? Stories? You felt them to be 
in every little house. 

The train crept on. I saw a French inn with a 
German flag painted over the red signboard. The 
tracks ran between fields scarred on either side with 
the brown, muddy craters of shells. At the Longuion 
Station I watched a German soldier standing on 
a ladder, painting out all French words within the 
sweep of his brush. Further on I saw a two-wheeled 
cart in a deserted farmhouse yard; its shafts were 
tilted up, and a load of bags rotted on the ground, as 
though the owner, unhitching the horse, had fled. 

Almost stopping, so slowly did the train move, it 
approached a tunnel that the retreating French had 
blown up. Inky darkness closed in, and the Ober- 
Lieuteiiant was saying that the Germans were digging 
the tunnel out, when a yellow torch flared against the 

46 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

window. I sprang to open it and saw the ghostly 
forms of soldiers standing along the rails. 

^^ Zeitung! Zeitung!'^ they cried, and in answer 
we tossed out to them all the newspapers in the com- 
partment. You had a feeling that the tunnel was 
dangerous, for the shaky, temporary wooden trestle 
was yielding to the train's weight. The tunnel 
marked the beginning of a destroyed railroad and, 
as we proceeded, I found myself looking into a house 
flush against the track. It was like a room on the 
stage, the fourth wall removed. All the intimate pos- 
sessions of the owner were before me; the pink wall 
paper was hideous in its flamboyant bad taste. Herr- 
mann came to my rescue. 

" The tracks from now are either repaired or laid 
new by our engineers. As they retreated, the French 
blew up everything. In some cases we had to run our 
line through houses." 

The engineers had cut away the half of the house 
which was in their way and left the remainder to be 
boarded up. 

A gray castle, that crowned a hill, had been the 
vortex of the terrific fighting that raged around Mont- 
m^dy. It seemed tranquil enough now. I saw the 
front door open, and down the terrace there shuflled 
a squad of baggy red-trousered French prisoners with 
their watchful guards. 

When we passed through Sedan it was almost dark, 
swarming with the Germans as in 1870. One after 
another we tarried at the stations of these captured 
towns. Finally we pulled up to a larger station 

47 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

where the shadowy forms of houses were closer to- 
gether. I was awakened from my speculations by the 
Ober-Lieutenant saying: "We are in Charleville, 
the Great Headquarters." 

As I left the train I felt a thrill of anticipation 
that grew apace during the long explanation that 
Herrmann was giving the station guards. Outside 
loomed the vague tops of trees, and the whiteness of 
a house accentuated against the dark night. Here 
and there a solitary light burned, but Charleville 
was a place of darkness. 

Herrmann had expected an automobile to be wait- 
ing, but when to the saluting click of sentries' heels, 
we had gone the length of the station front, he said to 
me : " You please get Mr. Dawson and Mr. Theyer 
and wait in the dining-room. I shall walk to Head- 
quarters and see what we are to do." 

Of couse, I suggested going with him. There might 
be a chance of seeing Falkenheim, who now is respon- 
sible for the movements of more than a million men 
on the West front; perhaps I might even see the Em- 
peror. Perhaps Herrmann guessed why I insisted so 
strongly on keeping him company on his walk to the 
Great Headquarters. 

" The roads are muddy," he said, in a way that 
blended consideration with decision. " Remain in 
there," and he pointed to the door of the station din- 
ing-room, " until I return." 

Then he showed us into a typical way station res- 
taurant that would have reminded you of any dirty 
American railroad lunchroom, had not the principal 

48 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

object of furniture been a large buffet, shining with 
bottled French wines and liqueurs. As I sat down at 
one of the marble-topped tables, I realized that we 
were the only civilians in the room, except the three 
men with white aprons and the pretty low-class 
French girl who was waiting to take our order. 

'^ Diner," I said briefly, not attempting to remember 
French after struggling for weeks with German, and 
fell to studying the room. It apparently was an of- 
ficers' mess of the General Staff. The clean field- 
green jackets and the dashing gray capes gave a touch 
of romance to that dingy dining-room. 

We lingered long over the coffee and Theyer, the 
Austrian, was telling how he had been with Jack 
London, taking movies for Pathe in the South Sea 
Islands, when Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann finally re- 
turned. 

" We must go at once to the hotel," he said, " and 
go to bed. We shall have to be up by five, and on 
our way to Lille.'' 

So it was Lille! There was real fighting in that 
northern section of France. 

" How long do we remain in Lille? " I asked, disap- 
pointed at being rushed away from the Great Head- 
quarters. 

" Five days," he replied, setting my fears at rest. 
" We shall use Lille as a base and go out to different 
points on the front." 

I knew then why he had been so long in returning ; 
clearly he had been receiving his instructions at the 
Great Headquarters, and the slight distrust I had 

49 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

come to feel at being rushed away from Metz and 
now from Charleville was entirely dissipated. After 
all, they meant business; Lille proved that; and five 
days at the front! 

If ever I return to Charleville and want to go to 
the Hotel de Commerce, it will be impossible without 
a guide. I remember going the length of a long street 
of shady trees, crossing a wide square, and then turn- 
ing off into a narrow alley where ancient lanterns, 
well masked, hung over from grilled wall brackets. 
I remember flashing my electric pocket lamp down on 
the cobbled street, for just an instant, when Herr- 
mann dropped his gloves. We stumbled down a 
blind alley that called to mind the habitation of Fran- 
cois Villon in " The Lodging for a Night." Then 
Herrmann was rattling the knocker on the huge oaken 
doors of a two story flat-roofed house that looked a 
century old. The door groaned back and I found 
myself gazing into the blinking eyes of an old portier 
who held a candle and who would have demanded 
what we wanted had he not suddenly spied the mili- 
tary gray of Herrmann's cape and at once asked us to 
come in. 

The few hours I slept that night were in a venerable, 
four-posted bed, in a low-ceilinged, high-casemented 
room such as you sometimes see on the stage in a ro- 
mantic play. I remember hearing a rapping on the 
door, almost as soon, it seemed, as I had closed my 
eyes. 

Five o'clock! And I heard the portier shuffling 
down the hall and then the hollow, rapping sound of 

50 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

another early morning call on the Ober-Lieutenant's 
door. Below in the alley panted one of the gray- 
green army motors waiting to bring us to the station. 
Cold sprouts, coffee, and a roll, and we had climbed 
into a compartment of the train for Lille. From now 
on, soldiers with fixed bayonets composed the train 
crew. We crossed a wooden trestle built by German 
pioneers high above a green swirl of water between 
pretty trees, and on the left we saw the ruins of a 
stone bridge dynamited by the French. We rushed 
out at St. Vincennes to eat at an officers' mess, and 
as the train moved on I saw at a siding a long line 
of cars, their sides and roofs marked with the Red 
Cross; and even as we passed I saw two stretchers 
being borne along the track and lifted with their 
wounded through the open windows of one of the 
cars. I saw a white bandaged leg as the stretcher 
tilted and then the attendants inside the car covered 
it from sight. Hourly the front drew nearer. 

Trenches appeared. The train suddenly slid into 
a station and stopped. We were in Lille. While two 
soldiers were loading the luggage, photograph ap- 
paratus and all, upon a small truck, Herrmann sud- 
denly plucked my arm. " Look,'' he exclaimed, point- 
ing up at the huge glass-domed roof. I saw there a 
big hole, edged with splintered glass, and a fragment 
of blue sky beyond. " That's the hole made by a 
French aeroplane bomb. The Staff told me to look 
for it when we came to Lille. The bomb never ex- 
ploded and was picked up on the tracks over there." 

Not the most reassuring thought in the world, that 

51 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

French fliers had marked this place for destruction. 
In the waiting-rooms I saw nothing but soldiers — 
fresh troops with clean uniforms, unshaven men 
whose clothes were brownish with the mud of the 
trenches. By that time I had become used to being 
saluted, and to enjoy the click of a sentry's heels. 
While Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann was telephoning 
for a military automobile I noticed one of the Land- 
wehr guards begin to eye suspiciously the photogra- 
phers and their formidable luggage. I saw him call 
another of the dark-coated LandwehVy and they were 
obviously on the point of making a possible arrest 
when the Ober-Lieutenant returned, averting the sit- 
uation. 

We were, the Ober-Lieutenant informed us, to wait 
in the Cafe de Paris, — which was just across the 
square from the station, — until he returned. 

" The telephones have all been cut," he explained 
with a smile. " I shall have to walk to Headquarters 
and bring back a motor for us. I may be gone half 
an hour, or an hour, but please remain in the cafe. 
Kemember Lille is a captured city." 

So we crossed the square, Dawson, Theyer and I, 
while the wind brought us the grumbling of heavy 
cannon from the West where, not fifteen miles away, 
the Germans were making their terrific drive on that 
segment of the Allies' line, extending out from the 
Channel shore. Boo-omm, Boo-omm, Boo-omm, with 
the last syllable prolonged like a low note on the 
piano. Army transports rattled over the cobbled 
square; one of the gray motors with its muffler cut 

52 



TO THE WEST FRONT 

out, snorted past; and then the eye began to take 
in its surroundings. 

There on my left, as I went away from the station, 
I saw a place of destruction, an entire block of ruined 
buildings, their shattered sides rearing with hideous 
ugliness against the perspective of untouched houses 
beyond. Blackened walls, gaping holes, roofless skel- 
etons of houses; and within, a chaos of plaster and 
falling floors, one house after another, some almost 
razed to the ground, others with only their tops shot 
off, but all desolation and ruin. It was not the de- 
struction that made me stop in the square and stare 
about me, for I had become sated with shelled houses, 
all the way from Charleville to Lille; it was amaze- 
ment at the artillery fire that could lay low an entire 
block and not even drop a shell. The undisturbed 
cobbles in the square confirmed this conclusion. 
What deadly accuracy ! How, if something be marked 
for destruction in this war, can it escape? I stood 
in the square for several minutes and counted thirty- 
eight soldiers and sixty civilians walk past the ruins 
and no one so much as turned his head to glance even 
indifferently upon them. 

" How long,'' I asked the fatherly, white-haired 
Frenchman who brought us our coffee in the Cafe 
de Paris, " is it, since those buildings over there were 
destroyed? " 

" A month, sir," he said, and in a moment he added 
wearily, " Our city has been captured and recaptured 
three times." 

And it was easy then to know why they had all 

53 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

walked by without the slightest interest in the ruins 
beside them ; think of people becoming bored with de- 
struction! A typical French caf^ with its big win- 
dow, the Paris gave a view of the sidewalk. I saw a 
beautiful, dark-eyed French boy, dirtily clad, selling 
post cards of Lille to a good natured German infan- 
tryman. The soldier went away and then, what ap- 
peared to be the other members of the firm, a bigger 
and a smaller boy, darted from a doorway to divide 
the spoils with the dark-eyed youngster who had 
closed the deal. I saw five different parties of Ger- 
man soldiers come into the Caf^ de Paris, and I heard 
not even a loud word or jest against the French ; and 
three black-bearded Frenchmen played dominoes 
nearby. The soldiers ordered their coffee, or wine, 
paid for it, and minded their own business, just as they 
would at home, perhaps even more scrupulously so. 

Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann was an hour longer 
than he expected, but he had good news for me. 

" I have a car outside," he said hurriedly. " We 
shall bring Mr. Dawson and Mr. Theyer to the Staff 
and then I shall take you to an aeroplane base not far 
from here. It has been arranged for you to go up — 
if you wish." 

Hmm! The battle line could not be more than 
forty kilometers away, and a French flyer had almost 
wrecked the Lille station. 

"A fine day for flying," observed the Ober-Lieu- 
tenant. " You can see much," and he smiled. " A 
fine day also for the French fliers." 

'^ ^chon^^ I said, but refused to believe that a Ger- 
man aeroplane was ever hit. " Let's go." 

54 



IV 

ON THE BACK OF THE BIKD OF WAR 

1 WO hours after the crawling military train had set 
us down in what used to be the Gare du Nord in Lille, 
but which is now the Nord Bahnhof, I was hurriedly 
getting into a fur-lined military undercoat in the Ho- 
tel d'Europe. About to go up in one of Germany's 
war planes, I was determined to be comfortable, if 
not mentally, physically. Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann 
laughed when he saw me appear, as bulky with cloth- 
ing as a polar explorer, and said : " We shall have 
to hurry if we are to reach the aviation base before 
dark." We hurried. 

I have ridden with Robertson, Strang, and other 
race drivers. I have had my blood turned to ice when 
they skidded their cars around hairpin turns. But 
I never rode before with a chauffeur of the German 
army who was in a hurry ; nor shall I again — if I 
can help it. Bound for a place near Lens, so small 
that it appears only on the wonderful Automohil- 
kartes that the Germans have made of all Europe, the 
brown leather-coated soldier-chauffeur began to dis- 
tance everything on the road. It was one of those 
long, rakish motors, painted field gray green, that the 
Benz Company manufactures only for the army, ca- 
balistic black letters and numerals marking its hood. 

55 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

As, with the muffler cut out, we roared through the 
streets of Lille, I saw the civilians pause to watch us 
pass with sullen eyes. Poor Herrmann had his arm 
working like a restless semaphore, returning salutes, 
and as we thundered through the silenced business 
streets at mile a minute speed, military trumpetings 
warned the poor bewildered citizens of Lille of our 
approach. The car began its mad dance through the 
outskirts of the city and down between the sentinel 
poplars toward Lens. Not two months before I had 
been riding down Fifth Avenue on the roof of a slum- 
bering bus; to-day I was speeding in a German car 
through captured France. 

Ahead we saw the gray canvas tops of a transport 
train. The trumpet blared, but those mud-splashed, 
creaking wagons had the right of way. What if the 
two lancers who rode as a rear guard did recognize 
the officer in our car? After all, he was only an of- 
ficer, and they were bringing ammunition for the en- 
trenched battle line. So our soldier-chauffeur swore, 
but indifferent to his ^^ Donnerwetters/^ the drivers 
astride the transport horses stolidly held their course 
as, with an angry rasping of the tires, we skidded over 
to the side of the road, and rushed on in a splatter of 
mud. I looked at Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann and 
shouted : " They knew their business, those fellows 
back there." 

" Certainly,'' he replied, " their work is most im- 
portant. They were entirely right in not turning off 
the road for an officer's automobile. Everything de- 
pends on the transports, you know." 

56 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

Whereupon I began to have a greater respect for 
the light, rattling supply wagons that we passed by 
the dozen on the road to Lens, and found myself think- 
ing how unjustly those men might be regarded. 
" What did you do in the war? ''..." I drove a sup- 
ply cart." . . . How unheroic it sounds. Yet the 
Ober-Lieutenant told me that those men astride the 
bulky, unpicturesque dray horses were often put to 
the severest tests of courage. 

" During our drive on Paris," he said, " the French 
would often succeed in covering a segment of road 
with their long range artillery, and continually drop 
shells upon it. They knew, of course, that our in- 
fantry, by making a detour through the fields, could 
avoid this death zone, but they shelled on, knowing 
that our transport trains would have to go by the 
road. So the transports would make a rush for it, 
and of course many were killed." 

Another mile passed without our seeing any more of 
the gray wagon trains, and now the distant artillery 
grumbled louder. Two Uhlans cantered by, scanning 
us, and further on we passed another patrol. A cor- 
ral of the familiar gray-topped wagons beside red 
brick farm buildings showed the location of a 
base of supplies, and in front of the house we saw 
a naked soldier unconcernedly scrubbing himself 
in a tub of water. And always the sullen roar- 
ing guns grew steadier and more disconcertingly 
clear. 

" On this section of the line," Ober-Lieutenant ex- 
plained, " the Staff told me that the French generally 

57 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

begin their heaviest firing every day at half past 
three." 

I asked him why that was — it was like the curtain 
going up in a theater at a certain time. But he did 
not know, and could not even guess. I was wonder- 
ing how much further we were going to rush towards 
that unearthly booming when at a muddy crossroad, 
patrolled by a Uhlan, as motionless as Remington 
oiight have painted him, we made a quick turn and 
plowed away. Apparently we were bound for a 
weather-beaten house and barn, half hidden by a leaf- 
less clump of willows, apparently shorn by shrapnel, 
for the broken branches hung down dead in a perfect 
arc as though the projectile had burst, perhaps right 
there above the tiny moss-banked stream, and sprayed 
its leaden shower. 

As our motor, which had been heavily crawling 
along the farmhouse lane, finally sogged in the mud, 
refusing to go further, I followed Ober-Lieutenant 
Herrmann out of the machine, across the yard to 
where a sentry stood before the barn door. They ex- 
changed words and then the barn door slid back a 
trifle, a youngish man, wearing the black leather hel- 
met and coat of the aviation corps, appearing in the 
aperture. Excusing himself, Herrmann drew him 
aside and now and then I heard their voices raised in 
assent; they were evidently discussing my proposed 
flight. I guessed that Herrmann wanted to know 
exactly how much danger there would be. Conjec- 
turing that he was apparently satisfied that the risk 
was a minimum, and that the aviator had been in- 

58 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

structed to bring me nowhere near the firing line, I 
waited for their conference to break up. 

Their talk evidently finished to the satisfaction of 
both, introductions were in order. Then the aviator, 
Hals, shouted a command into the barn and instantly 
there issued from the gloom within, four soldiers. 
I watched them roll back the creaking door and then, 
as though it were a fragile thing, they began slowly 
to push out the aeroplane — a monoplane I judged, 
as its long, tapering fuselage protruded into the farm 
yard, and then I saw with a start that the wings 
were a biplane's — a strange craft. 

Events passed with bewildering rapidity. Half in 
a daze I saw the tall, solemn-looking aviator survey 
my warm clothing with an approving nod. The next 
instant I was buckling on a steel head protector, and 
when I noticed the machine again, it had been 
wheeled out into the flat, neighboring field. A level 
place I observed, packed hard with shale and dirt, 
made into a landing place for the planes. I caught 
a glimpse, at the extreme end of the field near the 
house, of two soldiers, fitting two wooden objects, 
painted the drab green of the field, into two pairs of 
prepared holes, one thirty feet behind the other. 
They were stout hoops, supported by posts, and 
rimmed with electric light bulbs. I noticed that the 
rear was perhaps two feet less in diameter than the 
other, and that when you stood directly in front of 
them, they gave the effect of concentric circles, their 
circumference but a foot apart. 

" What is that for? '' I asked Hals, and he explained 

59 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

that if it grew dark, the lights were lit, and if from 
above the aviator saw two fiery circles concentric, 
he knew that he could fly straight for them and alight 
in safety. 

" But I hope," he added, " that nothing will pre- 
vent us from landing in daylight.'' 

I did not like that " nothing will prevent us." I 
found myself wondering what could prevent us, de- 
ciding finally that it was only the usual jocular way 
of the aviator to frighten his passenger unduly before 
the flight begins. Had I but known! 

I was hurrying across the field towards the aero- 
plane, its fish-like tail bearing the black inscription 
" B 604/14," which I later came to know meant bi- 
plane number 604 of the year 1914. Ober-Lieutenant 
Herrmann was wishing me luck and in the same 
breath whispering admonitions to the grave aviator. 
I climbed up into the observer's compartment and 
found myself staring, first at the brown propeller 
blades only the length of the wagon in front of me, 
then at the brass petrol tank overhead, and the 
thick, curving celluloid shield behind, through which 
I could see the black sleeved arms of the aviator, 
moving towards the levers. I glanced down at Herr- 
mann, who looked a little nervous I thought. Two 
soldiers were grasping the brown wings on my left. 
The brown propeller began to spin, lazily at first, then 
faster, while the engine that I could have reached for- 
ward and touched, began its roaring. A quick com- 
parison between the observer's compartment of this 
machine, and the one in which I had sat at the Doe- 

60 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

beritz Flugplatz near Berlin came to me — that one 
had the tiny, brass, bomb-dropping levers, two on each 
side of the rail ; these were all in one line and on the 
left; that one had a writing shelf that fell out from 
the front wall of the tiny tonneau, so had this, and I 
touched the lever that brought the shelf sloping down 
towards my knees; the floor of that machine had 
seemed solid, though perhaps not, for this was cut to 
admit the insertion of an observing device which, 
protruding up between my knees, offered a lens on 
which the eyes might be cupped by a shield as on a 
Graflex camera. I was wondering if four bombs 
dangled from the four releasing hooks below, when the 
engine started, smiting my ears with a mad roaring, 
and driving cold air against my face. I remembered 
to pull down my goggles and the next moment I felt 
a shudder run the length of the machine as it lurched 
forward, running over the field, to rise slightly, bump 
gently on its rubbered wheels, and then gliding up- 
ward on a gradual slant, sail towards the willows, 
dead sentinels grotesquely standing at the far end of 
the field with their shrapnel-torn branches dangling 
against the gray-ringed dreariness of sky. 

One or two little spasms of fear and, as the aero- 
plane climbed towards a wood, I began to want to 
recognize instantly all the objects on the earth. They 
spread out, unrolling as on a huge panorama, a patch- 
work of many shaded woods and fields; there the 
brownish ribbon of a road losing itself like a thread in 
the gray distance, here little groups of absurdly small 
brick houses, off to the right a church steeple and be- 

61 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

side it the uneven blackened walls of a shell-riddled 
building. The motor had settled now into an ever- 
increasing clamor, in which, if you caught one false 
beat, you would have cause for alarm. No longer 
visible, the propeller blades had lost their individ- 
uality in a grayish blur out there in front, shadowy 
scimiters whirling too fast for the eye to see. You 
thought of the engine and the blades but a moment, 
and then they seemed to become a part of you, and I 
wonder now if my heart did not try to synchronize its 
beat with theirs. 

We climbed higher and higher. Although minutes 
ago, objects had ceased to seem strange by their magi- 
cal tininess, you could sense the growing height now 
by the development of color ; you never knew that the 
drab winter earth could have so many hues and won- 
drous shades of brown, gray, green, ochre, and purple ; 
they separated each into fantastic tintings, as though 
earth's beauties were not for those who dwelt upon it. 
The long army transport that we had passed on the 
road, was just a gray worm, crawling along in its 
brown dirt. And over there by the village, in that 
field where the thin bluish smoke wraiths were crawl- 
ing, must be the field kitchens . . . and that multi- 
tude of specks, a regiment off duty, back from the 
trenches, waiting to be fed. 

A gust felt cold on my cheek. The machine was 
turning. Now faintly, almost lost in the roaring of 
our motor, I imagined I heard once more that other 
sound, the grumbling of the guns, and now I thought 
of it as the hungry growls of some monster, already 

62 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

sated with the puny living things in that other world 
beneath us, but which ever grumbled for more. And 
then suddenly I saw a white cloud appear in the gray 
sky, and then the white cloud was gone and there 
came a second, a third, a fourth white cloud, then no 
more for a minute it seemed, and then four more again. 
And you knew that over there the enemy's shrapnel 
was bursting. Fascinated, I watched the pure ring- 
ing, billowing beauty of the smoke, celestial, white 
roses that bloomed out of nothing, dropped death 
from their petals, and died themselves in the gray 
sepulcher of sky. We banked away ; we saw the white 
clouds no more. 

I was conjecturing in a feverish sort of way how 
far we had been from the trenches and if that shrap- 
nel line had been bursting over them, or if the enemy, 
spotting a base of some kind, had begun to shell it, 
when growing out of the air there approached a 
sound. Scarcely audible at first, like the faint whin- 
ing of the wind, gathering its frenzy, now whistling, 
screaming, shrieking, I heard somewhere near in the 
void, the song of a shell. And when writing on the 
observer's table, I was trying to jot down how it felt, 
I heard another, nearer it seemed, and the pencil fell 
from my fingers, rolling down until it stopped by the 
ledge while I sat staring at it and trying not to think 
what might have occurred had we been a few seconds 
faster or the shell a few seconds slower. And then 
I felt myself slide forward in the seat and I knew that 
the machine was diving down. There was no danger, 
I felt; of course the aviator was all right. No shrap- 

63 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

» 

nel had burst near us but then, we might have been 
within rifle range. No! Absurd! Yet I quickly 
glanced over my shoulder and felt centuries younger 
when I saw the smile on Hals' solemn face. And 
then, as unexpectedly as it had begun, the downward 
bolt ceased. Hals was rattling the celluloid screen. 
It dawned on me that he wanted to tell me something. 
I leaned back and he leaned forward. I could hear 
him but faintly although he shouted. " Those shells 
were on the same elevation as we, or we could not have 
heard them. So I dove." And there they were 
screaming their death song overhead now, although I 
could no longer hear them. 

We flew towards a yellow chateau and then once 
more began to climb. Of course we were out of the 
path of the shells, but Hals had not then known that 
we were in the line of howitzers. The minutes passed, 
and slowly I admitted that the danger was over. A 
stinging pain, moreover, was settling above my eyes, 
and what I might have put down to the quick breath- 
ing of excitement, I realized now to be the gasping 
of the lungs in a rarified atmosphere. High indeed 
we were climbing, for the earth seemed to shrink and 
its many colors to blend themselves in a vague tinting 
suffusion of purple and gold, the veil of a dream. 

Heaven only knows what the officers must think 
who sit in the observing compartment as did I, though 
they know that this upward climb has a purpose, a 
purpose of war, as I was soon to see. More faint, then 
befogged, became the diaphanously veiled earth. 
Clouds interspersed, graying the vision, clouds and a 

64 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

drifting, wet mist that settled in beads on the glass of 
Day goggles so that I was continually rubbing away 
with my gloved fingers. We were hidden now, from 
the earth, and the earth from us. Marching gray 
gloom all around, ghostly wet wisps that straggled 
past, caressing one's face. In that Nomad's void, in 
which even the voice of the engine seemed hesitant 
and more subdued, I began to feel as if I was making 
some awful intrusion — into what I did not know, 
but one felt the guilt of an appalling, defying pre- 
sumption. 

And then I realized that we had been slowly de- 
scending through the clouds, for suddenly to the left 
I saw a patch of the purplish dream veil, and in a 
moment we were gliding down through the clouds and 
running just beneath them. Hals was shouting and 
pointing down. And I saw the battlefield. 

At first you thought of a cotton field, of white blown 
buds and then, as your vision shook off the spell of the 
bursting shells, you discerned down there a purplish, 
grayish patch of the earth, of which you were no 
longer a part, so remote, that only by peering down 
between your knees into the graflex-like observing 
glass set in the bottom of the car, could you distin- 
guish even vaguely a single object in that colorous 
haze of distance. And then gradually there took 
shape in the glass, as in a crystal ball, accented lines 
and dabs of color, and there grew before you the black, 
zigzagging scars of the trenches — although you knew 
them to be brown with wet clay — and behind them 
more black lines, only straighter — and you guessed 

65 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

those to be reserve pits — and behind them, approach- 
ing at right angles, more black lines, only fewer and 
further apart — and these you judged the approach 
trenches. As you stared with the glass your eye never 
ranged the whole battle line, always the white puffing 
smoke obscured the view in tiny, white, swift-dis- 
pelling clouds, that rose from the area between the 
zigzagging lines. You wondered which were the 
French and which were the German trenches. Now 
a white spot suddenly appeared, exactly upon one of 
the black lines, and in fancy you heard the explosion 
of a shell and the groans of men, and you wondered 
if observers had seen officers coming up and if that 
shell had been particularly well aimed. A patch of 
earth, purplish gray in that hastening dusk, and il- 
limitable lines of black stretching away, puffing white 
smoke quickly coming, quickly going; that was the 
battlefield as I saw it below the clouds. 

Possibly my eyes were accustoming themselves to 
the great height, for in the glass between my feet ob- 
jects were becoming clearer. From the thinnest 
thread the black lines had thickened perceptibly and 
now as it grew darker, I began to see innumerable, 
tiny, yellow-red tongues that had a way of darting out 
from the black lines and as suddenly withdrawing, and 
I began to think I heard a faint sound like the broken 
rolling of a drum, and somewhere very far off some 
one seemed to be beating a bass drum with less fre- 
quent but perfectly timed strokes, and there came 
up to me the booming of the battle — or did I imagine 
it? Observers tell me it is next to impossible to hear. 

66 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

Even clearer became the battlefield, clearer though 
it was ever darkening, and it dawned upon me that we 
were descending; approaching that patch of black- 
lined land where the pygmies played with death. It 
was with a weird trembling fascination that you saw 
the picture in the glass become more and more dis- 
tinct. It looked like a relief map now, with objects 
coming out of the purplish gray haze, and you won- 
dered at the geometrical precision of it all. By star- 
ing steadily at the black scarred lines you slowly dis- 
cerned another color and there at intervals, which 
gave that same impression of mathematical exactness, 
you made out darker colored dots. ^^ The soldiers ! " 
Involuntarily the words escaped me. And then the 
black lines seemed to march across the glass and were 
gone and you saw now only the parallels of the ap- 
proach trenches, one at one extreme of the lines, the 
other but half visible on the outer edge. 

You knew then that you were flying away from the 
battle firing line, but even as you looked, what seemed 
to be a row of broken boxes, moved across the glass, 
hesitated and paused there as the aeroplane hovered 
above them; and in that moment a yellowish box 
which seemed to stand apart from the others, and 
which you guessed to be the great house of the village, 
was blotted out by the spewing gray white smoke of a 
grenat and when the glass cleared you saw that the 
yellow box had changed to a jagged shape, red with 
flames. Fascinated, you watched the burning house, 
and then you realized that the celluloid shield behind 
you was rattling from violent rapping. Hals was 

67 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

shouting something; finally I guessed what it was 
— "Want to go down?" I shook my head no. As 
he bent to the levers, I think he chuckled. 

I wondered if what immediately followed had any- 
thing to do with that mirth. My muscles were 
cramped from bending over the glass. I tried now the 
naked eye, but the gray dusk was blackening and the 
fringe of flame on the trenches becoming redder and 
more vivid. But this flame, which should have been 
even more lurid, began to grow dim and to wane away, 
like a thousand guttering candles, and I knew then 
that we were climbing once more ; why, only the man 
behind me knew. 

The flickering trenches slid by and away ; below us 
the earth had become calm, luminous blue, pricked 
here and there with yellow pin points of light; but 
still I thought I heard that measured, muffled beat- 
ing as of a great drum, only presently it became 
harsher as though the drummer was wielding his stick 
with sudden fury, an insanely growing fury ; and you 
felt a wind on your face, then it was gone, and you 
felt it again, for the aeroplane had begun to swing 
round in a slow circle, a nightbird you thought, seek- 
ing something below. And then again came the roars, 
two, one almost upon the other; they seemed ahead 
on our right somewhere ; and again I felt the wind on 
my cheek, but not again; we were flying straight 
now. 

By this time I thought I knew what Hals had 
planned. Those pausing, slow, swinging circles had 

68 



m 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

been made in order to get the exact source of the 
sound, and now Hals was flying towards it — his 
object the location of one of the enemy's batteries, a 
new battery, I judged as yet unknown to the Germans, 
possibly the one that had dropped the shell on the 
yellow house. Now, had Hals known that the shell 
was from a battery just getting into action? Because 
they are men of air as well as of earth, have these 
soldier-fliers strange powers? 

I noticed that the tiny lights from what must be a 
farmhouse down there, had a way of increasing and as 
suddenly decreasing from two to four to two ; and al- 
ways the vanishing lights would be patches, not pin- 
pricks, more vivid, too, as though they were not shone 
through glass, but came from doors that opened into 
illuminated rooms. And I was wondering why these 
doors always kept opening and closing. The place 
must be a brigade headquarters or something equally 
important. That was it! Soldiers were constantly 
coming and going. And as regularly appearing, these 
patches of light grew more lurid, and the guns raged 
on, I thought with a smile that the firing might well 
be the slamming of those farmhouse doors, for just 
then the two had perfectly synchronized — the sud- 
den flaring lights, the faint sound of guns. And then 
it happened again, one upon the other, and I must 
have risen to my feet for it dawned upon me — There's 
the battery over there! Those lights that I thought 
were part of the farmhouse! Our motor seemed to 
thunder unnaturally loud then, again they flashed 

69 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

down there, again the faint boom tore up to us. 
^' Kollosal! '^ Hals had spotted the French guns. 

Of the race back through the night, I have only the 
most feverish recollections. I knew we were flying 
faster than ever before, for the fuselage was throbbing 
madly and you had a feeling that to escape an awful 
strain put upon it, the engine was trying to tear itself 
loose. And then you thought of the need for this 
speed. Had I been careless with the electric torch? 
Had we been seen? Might not even now the enemy 
be after us? Perhaps a telephone call from the bat- 
tery down to the trenches where the muzzle of an 
aeroplane gun was tilted to the sky. Or had they 
telephoned their own aeroplanes to put up after us? 
Why the speed that Hals evidently deemed necessary? 

You knew, too, that somewhere down there, shells 
from the German batteries were whining towards the 
enemy's positions. You knew, too, that to reach the 
earth, you would have to bolt down through this bat- 
tle-filled sky. The chances were one in five thousand 
that we would be in the line of our own shell fire. 
You did not like to think of that one chance. The 
machine had ceased to shake. I imagined that Hals 
was looking down on all sides. The wind, certain 
signal of a turn, struck my cheek. The slow swing- 
ing circles began as before. And then, just upon 
sighting the French battery, Hals suddenly drove the 
machine forward. Off to the left, what had seemed 
an unnaturally bright point of light grew incredibly 
fast into a circle of light and beside it a smaller 
circle, and their circumferences seemed to be rest- 

70 



ON THE BACK OF THE BIRD OF WAR 

lessly moving, intersecting here and there with ex- 
asperating frequency, although gradually becoming 
steadier and finally becoming almost concentric, in- 
tersecting not at all, the smaller though seeming to 
have moved in front of the larger, shifting from side 
to side, although never touching the outer fiery rim. 
And suddenly I remembered the two circular frame- 
works, fitted with the electric bulbs, in the field by 
the shrapnel-scarred willows and I recalled the ex- 
planation of them, that they were guide posts for an 
aviator at night, and that once he had them concen- 
tric, he knew that he was flying true to his landing 
field. 

So we were almost home now — home ! — the 
thought made you grimace — miles away ! And in a 
moment now we must drop, begin that bolt down 
through that zone, through which the shells of our 
own batteries were flying. And I heard that most 
disconcerting of all sounds that you hear in the air, 
the shutting off of the motor — an instant, and as 
we slid forward, I felt for the brass handles to brace 
myself, and no longer sped round by the motor's 
power, the propeller blades became as the strings of 
a monstrous harp through which the rushing wind 
wailed a weird song; and we bolted down. ... If a 
shell passed I did not hear it. Gaining in violence, 
the wind shrieked through the slowly spinning blades, 
shrieked as though the very air had gone mad; and 
just when you had begun to doubt that it was beyond 
human skill to bring an aeroplane to earth through 
the night like this, you felt a sudden forward horizon- 

71 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

tal glide, and the next moment the rubber tired 
wheels were bouncing over the hardened field, and the 
shadowy forms of soldiers seemed to spring out of the 
earth, laying hold of the wings as though to make it 
captive, and the concentric lights were gleaming just 
in front ; and a voice you knew to be Ober -Lieutenant 
Herrmann's was calling, with a trace of relief, you 
thought : " Well, how was it? " 

Laboriously climbing down from the fuselage, I 
looked for the aviator, Hals. 

" He ran off to telephone,'' a soldier said. 

" The French battery," I said aloud. 

As we motored back to Lille, I heard a German 
howitzer open fire. 



72 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

1 HE service was as good as you get at the Waldorf. 
Moving with deft skill round the long table, as if 
their training in the army had consisted of passing 
platters of food, the soldiers in field gray silently im- 
portuned you to have at least another helping of 
cheese. In a detached way I was gazing at the big 
canvas hanging on the brocaded wall, the lower part 
of the picture half hidden by the smart jackets and 
shaven heads of the Prussian officers, sitting opposite ; 
then I saw a soldier opening one of the stained glass 
windows, and muttering along the wet wind, I heard 
the muffled grumbling of the guns. 

" An excellent canvas, is it not? '^ the staff officer at 
my right was saying, a slender man with one of those 
young mustaches; he wore a monocle, and the Iron 
Cross. " The Marquis, you know, has one of the best 
collections in France. He has several Rubens, I be- 
lieve, but I have never seen them,'' he added hastily. 
" The gallery is on the second floor, and the Mar- 
chioness has a perfect terror of our going in there — 
we barbarians,'' he laughed. 

Through the opened window I could see the green 
tops of the winter trees, enveloping each in a separate 
silvery haze, as the unceasing rains that have turned 

73 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

these Western battle lines into quagmires drizzled 
down. The sullen monotone of the guns made you 
glance around at Commander von Arnim, the rather 
frail, reserved, iron-grayed aristocrat who leads the 
Fourth Army Corps. Finding no trace of emotion 
there, you scanned the line of his staff, whose faces, 
thoughtful, mature, or as young and dapper as musi- 
cal comedy ever staged its " Lieutenant of the Huz- 
zars," all seemed as unconcerned as though they were 
lunching in a Berlin cafe. And, when the noise of the 
guns obsessed you, your ear caught the incongruity of 
the tinkle of coffee cups and you wanted to laugh, al- 
though you did not know why. 

The Lieutenant who had spoken of the Marquis's 
paintings was saying that he had been in New York 
last winter — and asked where one went there after 
the restaurants closed at one o'clock? Just then I 
saw that Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann, who had been 
talking with Commander von Arnim, wanted to speak 
to me. I had learned that the Ober-Lieutenant gen- 
erally had something keenly interesting to say, espe- 
cially after conversing with a Corps Commander. 

" We must go now," said Ober-Lieutenant Herr- 
mann. 

" Back to Lille? " I asked in dismay. 

" Not until the evening when we go to the Second 
Bavarian Corps Staff for dinner. Meanwhile we see 
something behind the battle line." 

Assured that they were not hurrying me away be- 
cause at three o'clock — so they all had said — the 
French artillery invariably began heavy firing, I said 

74 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

good-by to the officers and climbed into one of the 
fast army motors, painted the same gray green as the 
uniforms, unable to shake off the feeling that it was 
not war at all, but that this buff- walled chateau in the 
beautiful iron-fenced park, had not been comman- 
deered as an army headquarters, but that it was sim- 
ply the home of one of these young men who had in- 
vited all his brother officers from a nearby garrison to 
a luncheon ; and that now we were leaving to catch a 
train. But as the motor lurched soggily from the 
soaked driveway I took a last glance at the chateau ; 
a wisp of blackish smoke beaten low by the rain, was 
creeping along the brick chimney, and an old servant 
was sweeping away the mud that our boots had left 
on the stoop ; but as the motor swung past the little 
square-paned library windows I saw that they were 
pierced with tiny holes, through which passed the thin 
tendrils of six wires, caught against a great tree and 
leading off through the park; and in the window I 
saw a soldier telephoning, while another at a table 
seemed to be writing down what the man in the win- 
dow was calling off. Ahead a tranquil driveway tun- 
neled through the trees. . . . 

The army chauffeur, ignoring the insane skidding 
of the car, was racing through a desolated country. 
It is the contrast that always catches you in this war, 
and in the sugar beet fields that came up to the road 
I began to see an increasing number of mounds, some 
four, some thirty feet long, incongruously protruding 
from the flat ground. And I began to see little 
wooden crosses, turned the deeper yellow that new 

75 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

wood turns in the rain, and some of tlie crosses loos- 
ened by the downpours^ leaned over, their arms resting 
in the mud, and on one a helmet hung. On either 
side the unharvested fields of sugar beets had become 
the harvested fields of the dead. . . . 

Where I saw the white sides of a farmhouse, no 
smoke mounted from the gaunt, gray chimney; and 
in the yard beyond, no human thing moved, for we 
were passing through a countryside where the armies 
had passed. We drove on, but we could not leave the 
long, sinister mounds behind, and I began to think: 
What an awful thing it is not to be able to go a hun- 
dred yards without seeing a grave. I noticed that 
Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann no longer sat hunched 
with the blue collar of his cape turned up to his ears 
and staring straight ahead ; restlessly he seemed ever 
glancing from left to right. I wondered what he, a 
soldier, who had been decorated for bravery in Ger- 
man Southwest Africa, thought of these things that 
he so restlessly saw. 

" A great battle was fought here early in October," 
he said, after a time. " Sixty thousand men were 
engaged.'^ He paused. " There were six thousand 
dead. Every day for five days a hundred were 
wounded for each mile of a forty-mile line.'' 

That was all, but his eyes roved from grave to 
grave. For two miles we followed the avenue of 
wooden crosses and then, still in the open country, 
the car stopped. I saw that the car ahead with the 
staff officers had stopped too, and that they were get- 
ting out. 

76 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

" Over to the right there/' said a captain, pointing 
towards a clump of trees through which the ruins of 
cottages loomed dismally in the rain, " is a village 
which we had to shell because the French had a posi- 
tion there. Then they took up positions in the ceme- 
tery," and, with a wave of his hand, the Captain in- 
dicated an ancient brick wall that had seemed to 
enclose a grove of tall cassia at the end of the sugar 
beet field. " It took us three days of hard fighting 
to capture the cemetery," he continued, as we waded 
through the mud. 

a Three days and how many lives? " I thought, as 
we approached the brick wall, " and now it is not 
considered of enough importance to have a single sol- 
dier on guard " ; which is one of the false impressions 
that always comes to you after hearing that a cer- 
tain point was taken at such sacrifice, and then to 
find that point abandoned. For the moment you 
seem to think of it as being typically futile of war; 
and then its place in the vast strategical contempla- 
tion of a battle line three hundred miles long emerges 
from your temporarily befogged vision. It is the mili- 
tary point of view to think that too much peace 
makes a nation soft, and you become angry at the 
feeling that has whispered that war is futile and 
forthwith you place war where the idealists forget 
that it belongs, not beside barbarism, but with civ- 
ilization. 

We entered by the rusted iron gate and stood 
among the place of desecrated graves. But as I 
walked among them, their white monuments chipped 

77 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

with rifle balls, the leafless boughs of the great trees 
overspreading above splintered with shrapnel, the red 
wall torn open here and there to admit the shells that 
must have burst in that rain-fllled crater by the iron- 
railed shaft ; as I saw a clutter of rifle butts, smashed 
off against a tombstone, perhaps, so that the metal 
parts could be taken back to an ordnance factory to 
be molded again, I was thinking of the men who had 
fought here, and whether they had lived. I was won- 
dering how many of those thick, white, bullet-chipped 
tombstones had shielded men from death. I was won- 
dering how many more of them would have been 
killed had they fought in the open field; and as I 
examined the shattered granite slabs, I thought of 
the protection they had given. 

One of the staff officers was speaking to me. 
" Will you return to headquarters with us for tea? " 
he was saying, and he gave a slight shudder. Per- 
haps it was from the cold rain. 

As we motored into Vis en Artois, the sun broke 
through the gray-ringed dreariness of sky. Up a 
narrow hill street with the powerful car waking the 
echoes among the low w^hite stone houses, two or 
three peasants in wooden shoes flattening themselves 
against the walls to escape the muddy spray from our 
tires, and we stopped in what seemed to be the village 
center. Down the street I could see the last hooped 
roof of a transport caravan, and from a stealthy 
creaking in the house across the street, I had an idea 
that shutters were being slowly pushed open and that 
there were frightened, bewildered eyes behind. 

78 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

With Ober-Lieu tenant Herrmann, whose French is 
better than mine, I crossed the street to read the 
proclamation — Avis! — pasted to the wall of a 
church. Worded by the Germans and signed by the 
French Burgomaster of Vis en Artois, it told the in- 
habitants what to do if they would keep out of trou- 
ble. 

From the church we walked to a tall, gray stone, 
square-turreted building that loomed above everything 
in the village and passing through a wide archway 
we came into a court filled with drilling soldiers. 
I wondered what it could have been before the war, 
for the stacks of hay and the manure piles were 
wholly incongruous. Clearly, it now was being uti- 
lized as a transport station, for at the end of the court 
I saw four empty, gray, canvas-covered wagons. 
Turning to the soldiers, you were instantly struck by 
the fact that they were smaller than any you had ever 
seen in uniforms. All of the same size divided into 
squads, each in the hands of a drill sergeant. I 
watched them doing the " goose steps," to the proud 
clapping of their boots on the cobbled court, while 
others marched by briskly in twos, saluting. It was 
the barest rudimentary training that they were be- 
ing put through — but it was stiffening them for the 
firing line — and as they drilled these raw troops, 
I could hear in the distance the drumming of the 
guns. It seemed to electrify these stocky little fel- 
lows in the new uniforms, for their feet stamped the 
louder, and their saluting hands snapped up like 
automatons; and I wondered if it were hard to con- 

79 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

tent yourself with harmless drilling in a manure- 
strewn yard, with the music of war playing for you 
to march; or if behind any of those stupid, utterly 
peasant faces there lurked a craven thought that they 
were glad to be there and not where those shells were 
bursting. But as I watched them and felt the eager- 
ness with which they went about the drill, I found 
myself thinking of the craving I had seen the Jews 
of New York's Ghetto show for education and that 
these stolid peasants were just as eager to learn that 
they might go to war. And I wondered if after all 
it might not be a lark for the youth in them, better 
than giving themselves day after day to an industrial- 
ism that made them old before their time. Was it 
not better than trudging off in the morning to the 
blowing of a whistle? I asked Ober-Lieutenant Herr- 
mann where they came from. 

" They are all Saxonians,'' he explained ; and I re- 
membered what a German Socialist had told me, that 
the low laboring class of Saxony is notoriously poor 
and short-lived, their years taken by work in the 
mines. No wonder they had pranced at the roll of 
the guns ! They were thinking of it as a deliverance 
. . . Into what? 

We walked under the gray arch and across the 
muddy street into a paved school yard, where ever- 
green hedges bloomed in pretty red tubs. The sun, 
as if to make up to those rain-soaked men who 
crouched in the trenches but six kilometers away, 
streamed down, as in a glory before its setting, and 
as the school yard rung to the fall of our heavy boots, 

80 




'We came to a court filled with drilling soldiers." 




Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann, detailed by the General Staff to 
accompany Mr. Fox along the Western front. 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

it seemed for a moment as if the brown door must 
open and children come pouring forth. 

We entered the school house and turning into the 
classroom on the left, I saw twelve cots made of rough 
boards and twelve wan, unshaven men who lay there 
as men dead, although, at the sound of our approach, 
their eyes turned in a disinterested stare. I observed 
a German, who seemed to tremble under the covers, 
and as I walked beside his bed, I saw that the sweat 
was standing out on his face. 

" How high is his fever? '' I asked the surgeon. 

" He has no fever. He is sweating with pain." 

I turned to go out. I think the surgeon was of- 
fended that I did not make the rounds with him, for, 
with true German consideration and thoroughness, it 
was doubtless his plan to show me every detail of 
his little hospital. 

" Eight weeks ago," he was saying, as I walked 
back towards the door, " we had two hundred 
wounded in here — but now," and his tone was almost 
apologetic. 

I asked him how far the wounded had to be trans- 
ported from here before they could be placed in a 
hospital train. 

u Thirty-five kilometers," he said ; " that is to Cam- 
brai," and he was explaining something about his in- 
teresting cases, and doubtless wondering why I did 
not write them down in the memorandum that stuck 
from my pocket. Two weeks before I would have 
done so, but as you come to see the wounded in this 
war, you feel — rightly or wrongly ; I do not know 

81 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

— that it is the grossest banalism to draw a note- 
book before the eyes of the wounded and write of 
their sufferings. Unthinking, I did it once in the 
hospital at Gleiwitz, and I shall never forget the look 
in a dying Austrian's eyes. 

Close by the door, I noticed a black-bearded 
Frenchman, his leg heavily bandaged, and over his 
head on the schoolroom wall hung a cheap copy of 
an etching of Friedland with the victorious French 
cuirassiers galloping by. What a world of sadness 
looked out from that wounded Frenchman's eyes. 
As we walked out into the court, you could hear the 
cannon more plainly, a steady crashing seeming ever 
to grow in violence as though one new batteiy after 
another was being unlimbered to make work for the 
surgeons in little school houses the countryside 
round. In great indignation, the surgeon drew a 
fragment of metal from his pocket and explained that 
two days ago an English aviator had dropped the 
bomb of which that was a part, only eighty meters 
from the hospital. But I scarcely heard him. From 
the manure-strewn courtyard across the street floated 
a cheer. Had the Saxonians been told they were to 
be sent to the trenches? And I wondered if this was 
to be their deliverance — the beds of unpainted wood, 
where I had seen a man sweat with pain. 

That evening, after a successful dinner, Herrmann 
took the edge off our pleasure by announcing that we 
must get up at five o'clock next morning. " You will 
be taken to the trenches with Captain Kliewer's party 
(another group of correspondents had come to Lille). 

82 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

We will all meet in Commines for luncheon and in the 
afternoon you may see a field battery in action. Of 
course, it is expected that you will not want to go, 
and it is understood that those who wish to remain in 
Lille may do so with the full approval of the staff.'' 

Kotkohl was approved; so was the Dutch general. 
Rotkohl said something about his grandmother, who 
lived on the Christiania Fjord, and the general — 
well, he said there were more pretty girls to be seen 
in Lille than along those muddy roads; besides it 
might rain, and suppose his patent umbrella did not 
work. In three motors, one for Ober-Lieutenant 
Herrmann and I, and the others for Captain Klie- 
wer's party, we raced through Lille long before dawn, 
to get into the trenches before daylight would reveal 
our approach to the French. We lunched with the 
Second Bavarian Army Corps at Commines as the 
guests of General von Stettin and we told every offi- 
cer in the room that we wanted to see the trenches by 
night, and, being Bavarians, they thought it a tre- 
mendous joke, and roared with laughter. 

Bidding the Bavarian staff good-by, Ave went out to 
our motors. With Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann and 
the photographers, I was supposed to go to a battery 
already in action. Hauptmann Kliewer's party were 
going to see their battery later. Telling myself that 
this early start — the heavy artillery firing never be- 
gins around Commines until four in the afternoon — 
was being made so that the photographers could 
photograph the battery, and that at this time of day 
there would be little doing there, I explained the 

83 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

situation to Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann. With the 
utmost good nature — I knew from his smile that I 
had guessed right - — he spoke to Hauptmann Kliewer, 
who courteously granted my request. So, with 
Poole, Reed and Dunn, I rode away from Commines, 
Hauptmann Kliewer following with an officer in 
another car. Poole was telling us that the Major 
who sat beside him at luncheon said that last 
night the English had dropped four shells into Com- 
mines, evidently taking a long chance on hitting head- 
quarters; and Reed came back with another officer's 
story of how the enemy's observers had seen a motor 
leaving Commines and had put three grenaten in the 
field beside the road not forty yards away. And as 
the gray -green army auto car soughed down the heavy 
roads and you saw the puddled fields beginning to 
mirror a suddenly sunlit sky, you wondered if the 
enemy's observers could see your car too, and you 
caught yourself, every now and then, watching the 
sky, as though to spy the shell they had picked out 
for you. Nothing happened in that ride, but from 
the moment of leaving Commines we thrilled to in- 
numerable paradoxical motions too laboriously com- 
plex to describe, that always come when you are 
approaching the firing line and the novelty has not 
worn off. Growing heavier with the sound, until it 
became almost the slow roll of huge drums, the sky 
filled itself with the echoes of the guns, crashing and 
crashing as though the heavens were a vault of blue 
steel. And always, out of that growing grumble to- 
wards which we rode, we heard more distinctly the 

84 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

explosions pf the shells, each in a separate discon- 
certing violence, and always louder, nearer. 

Two Uhlans, their mortar board helmets covered 
with cloth, galloped by; we overtook a transport 
train, the light, springy wagons moving easily 
through the mud, the drivers posting in their stirrups, 
which somehow seemed like an exhibition of beauti- 
ful riding that should have been done in a park. We 
turned out, our wheels spinning in mud up to the 
hubs, to let one of the big gray motor ambulances 
painted with huge red crosses, rumble by, with its red 
load for the field hospital in Commines. We passed 
two rosy-cheeked peasant girls, who carried food in 
baskets, and then the clank and jangle of a string of 
caissons, going at a canter, as though a battery needed 
shells. Perhaps the very battery we sought. 

Somewhere on that road we must have crossed the 
Belgian frontier, for after passing through silent, 
shelled Maraid we drove into Houthem, Commando 
of the Second Bavarian Corps. We had been fol- 
lowing a road that ran parallel to the firing line only 
a mile on our left. Shells from the German batteries 
had been flying overhead, but the muffler cut-out had 
drowned their wicked whine. We were in Houthem, 
and across the muddy fields there was that row of 
trenches where the German line seems to come to a 
point, and where there was a colonel of whom we 
had heard in Commines, Oberst Meyer of the 
Seventeenth Bavarians, who had pushed forward as 
far as he dared go, lest he be enfiladed, was waiting 
now for his supports to come up — hence the point 

85 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

that you may have seen on your newspaper maps of 
January of the lines near Ypres, 

I looked out from under the dirt-colored top of our 
motor to find that we had stopped before a little 
yellow-brown building over the door of which was 
nailed a black and white letter shingle, saying that 
here were the headquarters of an artillery regiment. 
Seeing Hauptmann Kliewer and the Corps Staff offi- 
cer from Commines get out of their car and enter the 
house, I concluded they were arranging for our visit 
to the battery, and climbed out with the others to look 
around. We stood at the intersection of one narrow, 
muddy road with another that seemed to lead off at 
right angles towards the trenches. I looked up the 
village street, at the end of which a red brick church 
laid its high white steeple against the blue sky. I 
could see the shell holes in the church walls, but the 
steeple appeared untouched. Poor marksmanship! 
I saw what had been a row of houses. All that was 
standing now was their walls, and in the ruins of one 
I saw soldiers picking up the heavy roof tiles; they 
would use them to floor their dugouts in the trenches. 

A group of soldiers, evidently off duty, had been 
watching us, and one of them came over. " I'm a 
German-American," he said, introducing himself. 
" I lived in Brooklyn. I worked in an exporting 
house on Hanover Square." 

" You're not a German- American," I replied. 
" There's no such thing. You're a German. That's 
why you came over to fight, isn't it? " 

" Sure," he grinned ; and then he put to me that 

86 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

everlasting question : " What do Americans think 
now? Are they more friendly than when I left? '' 
( That was in August, and he had stowed away on an 
Italian steamer.) 

I told him that I thought they were; whereupon, 
apparently greatly relieved, he told me something 
about the street upon which we stood. 

" You see those houses over there? " and he pointed 
to the row of ruins. " Well, when we first came here. 
Artillery Headquarters were in the last house. Then 
a shell hit it when the officers were out — Gott sei 
Dank! — so they moved next door. A shell bursting 
on the street here " — and he indicated where the road 
was filled in — " smashed up that house so that it 
caught fire. Then the Colonel moved down to the 
yellow house there. I wonder when he'll have to 
move again." 

I wondered too, and began to feel uncomfortable. 
Over in front of the yellow house — the first floor 
had evidently been a store — I saw a group of sol- 
diers looking in the window. They were closely in- 
specting and talking about the photographic repro- 
ductions that have evidently been hung there by 
orders, there where all the soldiers, back from the 
trenches on their relief, might see. For I noticed 
that there were pictures of captured Russian guns, of 
General Hindenburg, of the victorious German troops 
entering Lodz. And I thought that here was but an- 
other instance of the marvelous system which is 
carrying on this war against nearly all Europe. 
Pictures of triumph from the Eastern lines posted 

87 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

where the soldiers in the West can see and be thrilled 
with national pride. 

I began to notice these soldiers who, back from the 
trenches and cleaned up, were strolling around 
Houthem as on holiday, shaved, their uniforms made 
as clean as possible, smoking cigars, they reminded 
me of the workmen you see stopping before the win- 
dows of the cheap shop in a factory town on pay- 
envelope afternoon. In a field close by I saw a 
swarm of them, gathered round one of the yellow and 
black Liehesgahen wagons that bring gifts from 
home to the soldiers free of charge. Presently, his 
back bending under the weight of a bulky white bag, 
I saw one of the soldiers come away from the wagon 
and slowly shuffle down the street. You guessed he 
had been the one chosen to get the gifts sent to the 
men of his company, and as he plodded on past the 
shelled houses, I heard him whistling. There came, 
a few minutes later, from behind a gray shed where 
a transport had been delivering lumber, two other 
soldiers, and on their shoulders they carried a long 
box made of new wood — a coffin. And in confusion 
I thought it must be for some officer, and I thought 
of the man with the Liehesgahen pack and of the 
homes that had sent the gifts it contained, and that 
when he would read off the names, that there would 
be names of the dead. . . . 

The yard in front of the white-steepled church of 
the Annunciation of Mary the Virgin was filled with 
the familiar little wooden crosses, fitted in, it seemed, 
between the old tombstones of the Belgian inhab- 

88 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

itants. As Hauptmann Kliewer swung back the heavy 
door, I was amazed to see that the church swarmed 
with soldiers. A confusing clash between the in- 
stincts of religion and military necessity, and I walked 
among the soldiers. They were recruits receiving a 
last drill in the use of arms, stiffening them before 
they went down into the trenches. You told yourself 
that you were glad all the benches had been torn from 
this church so that these men might be drilled here 
without being exposed to the shelling that their de- 
tected massed presence anywhere around Houthem 
would of a certainty bring on. I know had it not been 
war, instincts of my upbringing would have revolted 
against this, that the thoughtless like to speak of as 
desecration. But the more you see of war, the more 
you come to measure the things of war time solely in 
terms of life and death. It is not the spilling of Holy 
Water that matters, only blood. 

Almost in a daze, I stared up at the gaping holes 
that the shells had made in the roof. Broken slates 
stuck down from out the smashed plaster ceiling, and 
you thought of them as of bones, and the brown tat- 
ters of hanging plaster as wounded flesh, for you 
came to think of this place as being a stricken per- 
sonality, call it a stricken religion, if you like. But 
was it not written that He suffered so that a world 
might be saved? Surely, then, what could mean a 
few shell holes in one of His houses, if most of those 
who hid there might still be spared. 

I walked between the lines of young recruits, some 
loading, others learning the sights, others emptying 

89 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

their magazines, and I came at last to a shrine of the 
Virgin built in a recess in the wall. Above it I conld 
see a patch of the blue sky, framed in the hole of a 
shell ; but it was not the shrine that held me ; it was 
the soldiers before it. They were down on one knee, 
and I wondered if they were Catholics worshiping 
there while the others drilled. ^^ Feuer! ^' And each 
man whom I had thought on reverent knee, snapped 
a gun to his shoulder; I heard the hammers click. 
They had been learning to shoot kneeling. I won- 
dered if any of them thought of the Virgin . . . 
" Damn dumbheads ! " cried an officer. " Faster ! '' 

Explaining that the enemy had left an observation 
post in the steeple and that the Germans were using 
it for the same purpose now, Hauptmann Kliewer led 
us into a circular staircase of wood that coiled away 
into the darkness of the narrow tower. Did we wish 
to climb up to it? The Hauptmann explained that 
it was dangerous, for " knowing we had observers in 
the steeple, the French artillery would, sooner or 
later, open fire." But arguing with yourself that the 
French had evidently tried to hit the steeple before 
but had only succeeded in putting a few shell holes 
in the church roof, you became convinced of the com- 
parative safety of it, and began to climb the spiral 
stairs. The higher you got, the more rotten the 
boards became, and I was wondering if there wasn't 
more danger from my two hundred odd pounds being 
brought down on a rotten step than there was of a 
shell crashing through the brick cylinder. After 
climbing up a series of shaky vertical ladders we 

90 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

stepped out on the observing platform. To put us 
at our ease, Hauptmann Kliewer warned us all about 
not gathering around the observing window, a hole, 
a foot square, cut in the wall, adding that the plat- 
form was not strong. So, two at a time, we stood at 
the window and looked out. 

I saw the country laid out as it is from a low-flying 
aeroplane, the soggy fields exaggerating the square- 
ness that the gray fences gave; beyond the flat red- 
roofed houses I saw a dark green fringe of trees, and 
then above that a tiny puff of white smoke appeared, 
then another, until I counted four, all billowing out 
in the thinnest of fleecy clouds, until thinning all in 
a white blur, they vanished. 

" That's shrapnel," Hauptmann Kliewer was say- 
ing. " Our trenches are right by the woods there.'' 

And it came to me, the wondrous glory of the little 
white clouds ; if that was so the soldiers might look 
upon beauty before death. The wind was blowing 
towards us, and we heard the shrapnel's peculiar 
whistling burst and then the heavy shaking roar of 
grenaten and over to the right, just at the edge of 
the wood, I saw rising the blackish smoke of heavy 
shells. About a mile away, exactly opposite, I saw 
a brown tower between the trees. 

" Our artillery observers are in there," explained 
Hauptmann Kliewer, " and the French must know it, 
for they've had a cross fire on it from right and left 
all day." 

I watched the steeple with a new fascination. 
Shrapnel framed it in a soft billow of clouds, and 

91 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

lower, where grenaten struck the ground, I saw the 
dissolving blackish smoke. Would they hit it? 

" They have fired a hundred shells at the tower 
since morning,'^ laughed the Hauptmann. " They^re 
not shooting very well to-day." 

I forgot everything but the brown tower. I felt 
that any moment it must sway and topple over, but 
when we were told to leave, it was still standing. I 
wonder if it is there now. As we left the church and 
plowed through the mud to our motors, I saw a battal- 
ion of artillerymen drawn up before the little yellow 
headquarters, receiving their instructions. I caught 
one admonition not to be careless with ammunition, 
and then we were told that we were going to a battery. 
Down a road, where we saw five abandoned French 
caissons mired in a field, we had another experience 
with a most disconcerting sign. Hauptmann Klie- 
wer's automobile stopped and seeing him get out, we 
followed, joining line in mud that came above our 
shoe tops. 

" It is unsafe,'' he explained, " to take these motors 
any further. Knowing we were officers, the French 
would surely spray the road with shrapnel.'' 

" Then the French observer can see us? " 

The Hauptmann laughed. 

" They've probably seen us from the moment we 
entered Hon them, and if our artillery hadn't been 
keeping them busy, they probably would have thrown 
some shells at our automobiles. But here we haven't 
even that chance. We walk to the battery. Sepa- 

92 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

rate yourselves at intervals of fifty paces so that if 
a shell drops on the road we won't all get it.'' 

Too business-like a tone had come into his voice to 
let you think he was fooling. At once his manner 
became that of the officer in action, terse and taking 
instant obedience as a matter of course. We spread 
out. I found myself walking with Poole. We were 
approaching a high-banked railroad track, the road 
disappearing under a trestle. I suppose the field 
must have been strewn with the objects of war. I 
did not see them. I was staring straight ahead at 
the sky, looking for shells, and getting ready to throw 
myself on my face — as I had been told to — if one 
came. And then, from behind the railroad embank- 
ment, came a terrific explosion and I was watching a 
whisk of grayish smoke trailing away. I stood for a 
moment unable to talk. The embankment was only 
a hundred yards away. 

" Poole," I remember saying. " That was close." 

" The French must be trying to destroy the rail- 
road," he returned. 

He was saying something else when another explo- 
sion shook the air, almost in the same place. Badly 
rattled, for I could see Hauptmann Kliewer and the 
Second Bavarian Army Corps Staff Officer calmly 
walking on, where every stride was bringing us nearer 
the track, I tried to say unconcernedly : " That's 
wonderful marksmanship. Two in the same place," 
thinking, " suppose another battery not so accurate, 
should open up, and missing the tracks, drop one 

93 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

where we stood. " Wonderful shooting/' I repeated, 
adding to myself, "and we're walking right into it." 

Whereupon Poole and I decided that if two Ger- 
man officers wanted to commit suicide, good enough, 
but as for us, we were not going another step further 
unless there was some other way than by this road 
that ran under the tracks not thirty feet from the 
bursting shells. Yet I found myself walking on, al- 
though my blood had long ago turned cold ; and I 
wonder now if that is the way some men go into action, 
ashamed to hold back. But we weren't going into 
action and there was no hot, nervous frenzy of battle 
and patriotism to urge us on. Walking towards those 
explosions was a case of " going in cold.'' 

Disobeying orders, we hurried forward, overtaking 
the officers, and to our amazement we learned that 
the explosions were not of bursting shells; but the 
firing of our own battery hidden behind the tracks ! 
Sheepishly, we trudged under the trestle. We had 
had all the sensations of being under heavy shell fire, 
dangerously close, and there had been no shells at all ! 

Coming out from under the trestle, I saw, sleeping 
under the high embankment of the railway, a greenish 
canal. Dug in the side of the opposite bank, that 
slanted upward forty feet from the water, I saw a 
hole shaped like a door, and as I looked, an officer 
darted forth and, scrambling up over the slippery 
clay, disappeared in a scraggle of bushes. I saw the 
mud-spattered carriages of two German field pieces, 
their dull barrels lying back between the wheels and 
serenely pointing into the blue and gray mottled sky. 

94 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

Leaving the road, we sank shin deep into a yellow 
ooze, and standing on some planks about the yards 
behind the guns, we waited. The boyish-looking ar- 
tillerymen, rigid gray-green figures, so statuesque 
that something in the mud must have turned them 
to stone, they seemed waiting too. And then, from 
the direction of the hole in the bank, I heard : 

^^ Links! Ein viertal tiefer ! '' 

And the statues by the guns became alive; they 
darted this way and that. They reminded me of 
sprinters leaving the mark. One leaped to the sights. 
^' Links! Ein viertal tiefer!'' And as the man on 
the bank bellowed again, the soldiers at the sights 
began tugging madly on something I could not see; 
and I knew that the range receiving telephones must 
be in that cave in the bank, for it dawned upon me 
now what that shouting meant : " Left ! A quarter 
deeper.'' Sight the gun to the left, advancing the 
range a quarter — some scale on the gun obviously — 
and they would get the French! I glanced towards 
the shouter ; he was disappearing into the hole in the 
bank. 

I saw another of the boyish artillerymen bend down 
over one of the brown straw baskets that stood in 
neat little piles and lift from it a shell, evidently 
heavy, for while stripping off a waterproofed cover, 
he rested the projectile on his knee. As he darted 
towards the opened muzzle, the waterproof cover fell 
in the mud, but instantly the soldier who had just 
lain the brown shell basket upon a pile of empties, 
picked up the cover and, neatly folding it, saved that 

95 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

too. And I saw a pile of discharged shell cases ; cop- 
per was too valuable these days to leave in the mud. 
And as I saw them load and prepare to fire, each man 
doing his task with the speed and deftness of a whirl- 
ing gear, I thought of it as one part of the war ma- 
chine in which individuality was utterly lost in the 
gun ; but that was before I went into the hole in the 
canal bank. 

And then I saw that all the soldiers were holding 
their hands on their ears ; and I was quick to put mine 
there too. But even then, as the gun discharged, 
I could feel my ear drums trembling as though they 
would break — the long red flash, the roar, the fright- 
ened recoil of the barrel, the dark puff of quick dis- 
pelling smoke, the air flying with black specks, and 
then a sound like a gigantic coil of wire being whirled 
through the air and a 7.7 centimeter shell was whis- 
tling towards the French line. 

As swiftly as they had loaded and fired, the youth- 
ful artillerymen withdrew the shell and when one of 
them stood patting the copper jacket of a new pro- 
jective and glancing towards the edge of the bank, as 
if waiting for the man who cried ^' Links ^ ein viertal 
tiefer! ^' to appear, I knew that they were firing shrap- 
nel. They must wait for the range before setting the 
tiny indicator which travels with the projectile 
through the air. And as I waited, marveling at the 
detailed accuracy for shooting at an enemy who must 
be nearly two miles away, the other gun in the battery 
went off with a roar, and, while my ears throbbed 
madly, I watched the village hidden among the dense 

96 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

trees about a quarter of a mile away, for an enemy's 
shrapnel was spreading its white clouds there. And 
just above those trees there appeared another white 
speck, two more and the sky was ringed with curling 
smoke; then two heavy booms and tatters of black 
smoke whirled from the trees. The French had 
opened fire on the village. As I waded through the 
mud to go down into the bombproof, it struck me un- 
easily that our officers glanced at each other. 

I was slipping down the bank as the " Links ein 
viertal tiefer '' man rushed from the bombproof, bel- 
lowing something to the gun crews. Then we 
climbed down through the hole of a door into dark- 
ness. The first thing I saw by flashing on an electric 
lamp was a dirt wall, a little artificial Christmas tree 
that stood in a niche in the walls; beside it a half 
loaf of black bread, a bottle of wine and a picture of 
the Emperor. And then the man who lived there 
nodded to me. 

He was sitting at a rough board table. He looked 
as absurdly young as the men under his command. 
I saw from his shoulder straps that he was an Unter- 
Lieutenant, and, even as I looked, his features seemed 
to grow grave with something he must be hearing 
through the telephone, which was strapped to Ms 
head. The stub of a candle guttered on the table and 
only his face seemed lighted; everything else faded 
away into shadowy silhouetting darkness. I saw him 
begin to race his pencil across a little pad and calling 
the orderly who, standing back in the darkness, I had 
not seen, he sent him scurrying away. The telephone 

97 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

buzzed. He called into it, lighting as he did a ciga- 
rette; from the blackened stubs strewn on the 
table, it was evident that he smoked constantly. He 
began scribbling again. I saw that he was looking at 
me nervously. I was thinking how this little room 
with the bread, wine, and Christmas tree, and the 
Emperor's picture, was the very organism of the bat- 
tery and that this good-looking, nervous young lieu- 
tenant was directing it all, when I saw the orderly 
hurrying in. Another officer hurried after him. I 
noticed that the Lieutenant at the table looked re- 
lieved. 

" You gentlemen will have to go now,'' said the offi- 
cer, whom I saw was an artillery captain. " The 
French have opened the village with heavy grenaten 
and two just burst four hundred yards from here." 

" What was that lieutenant so excited about? " I 
asked, as we left the bombproof. 

" Why, his observer just telephoned that the French 
and their aeroplanes were ascending." 

Even as I climbed up the canal bank, I saw the 
young artillerymen reluctantly covering their guns 
with branches, until, through a distant field glass, 
they would seem to be bushes. Their battery was 
" strategically silenced." I saw the under officers 
scampering down into the bombproof and their guns 
transformed into big gray leafless bushes, the boyish 
soldiers ran into hiding behind the blackened brick 
wall of a shelled house. Boo-oom ! Boo-oom ! Over 
in the village the smoke was pouring from a burn- 

98 



BEHIND THE BATTLELINE 

ing house and above the treetops the shrapnel spread 
their fleecy clouds. 

In the next field I saw a patch of blackened smoke ; 
dirt flew. 

" Run ! " shouted the Bavarian Captain, who had 
been in America. " Run like hell." 

And as we tore pell mell past the ruined house, the 
artillerymen grinned and waved their hands. 

^^ Gute Reise! '^ one of them yelled. 

Pleasant journey ! 



99 



VI 

A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

1 HE following are expanded pages of the diary that 
I kept from five o'clock in the evening of January 
10th, 1915, to seven o'clock the next morning. 

5 p. M. : The motor has stopped, but I wonder 
why. In Houthem the Bavarian captain told us that 
we were going to Brigade Headquarters. I can see 
though only a dirty brick farmhouse ; its door is open 
and the light of a lamp falling on the yard seems to 
float in a yellow watery pool. But the other gray- 
green army car has stopped too, and Hauptmann 
Kliewer is getting out. 

So we pile out on the muddy road just as Haupt- 
mann Kliewer beckons us to come on. Behind us the 
ruined walls of Houthem are hiding in the thickening 
dusk, but the grayish steeple where the Germans have 
— and the French used to have — their observers, per- 
sistently shows itself. 

Hauptmann Kliewer and the Bavarian captain 
have left the road and are wading through the mud 
of the farmhouse yard. I thought we were going to 
Brigade Headquarters. We splash on after them. 
Hours before at the battery we sank in mud to the 
tops of our puttees; now the novelty has worn off. 
Through an open barn door I see a motor and think of 

100 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

it as being hidden there, an impression which grows, 
upon noticing that all the windows in the rear of the 
house are covered with boards, so that no light is visi- 
ble. But the front door is visible. Yes, but that 
faces Houthem where the Germans are, and these rear 
windows face Ypres and the English and the French. 
About that silent house broods mystery. Hauptmann 
Kliewer is knocking and the door opens just enough 
for us to pass in one at a time, and is hurriedly closed. 
I wonder if a French observer could have seen that 
narrow bar of light. Probably not, for in the room 
only candles are burning — three stubby candles on 
a long kitchen table, around which soldiers are sit- 
ting. And something buzzes, and picking up one of 
the many telephones, a soldier says into it, '^ Brigade 
Hauptquartier/^ A moment, and it buzzes again. 
And once more the monotonous ^^ Brigade Eaupt- 
quartier/' And it dawns upon me that this dirty 
farmhouse must be the Brigade Headquarters that 
they told us w^e would visit. The kitchen now has a 
new interest. 

Bidding us wait, Hauptmann Kliewer and the 
Bavarian captain have gone with an orderly into an- 
other room. The man at the table with the ragged 
beard and the boyish face has clamped a telephone to 
his head and is writing rapidly, pausing now and then 
to assure the man at the other end of the wire that he 
is getting every word. I wonder where that other 
man is? Down in a trench, perhaps, or possibly in 
the regimental headquarters. What is he saying? 
Have the French attacked? The other man at the 

101 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

table, puffing stolidly at the briar pipe, is clasping a 
telephone as though ready should the buzzer call. 
I wonder how he can be fresh and clean shaven, when 
all the other faces seen in the flickering candle light 
look weary and unkempt. 

" Come ! " Hauptmann Kliewer is calling us, so 
we leave the men around the kitchen table, who, un- 
like most of the German soldiers we have met, seem 
too exhausted to talk, and file through a latched door 
into a room that might have been in a farmhouse 
somewhere near Monroe, New York. The little 
black, pillow-seated chairs, the old-fashioned piano 
with its rack of torn music, the red-cushioned stool 
with the stuffing coming out, a hideous colored print 
of Antwerp on the wall, the oil lamp with the buff 
china shade, it all seems so utterly un-European. 
And then the door to an adjoining room opens and 
a slender, nervous-looking man in the fifties, whose 
impressive shoulder straps indicate an officer of high 
rank, begins to bow to us all. " General Major 
Clauss," Hauptmann Kliewer is introducing us, and 
at once the General Major dominates the room. It 
is for him to say whether we must go back to Lille, 
or spend the night at one of his regimental head- 
quarters. 

He begins a long conversation with the Haupt- 
mann. General Major Clauss is shaking his head. 
I guess it's back to Lille. 

" Ask him," I beg the Hauptmann, as he begins to 
give us the substance of what had been said, " if they 

102 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

cannot let us go to the firing line, if they'll let us stay 
here until morning." 

With a smile, Hauptmann Kliewer is telling the 
General Major our wishes, but he too smiles, and 
spreads out his hands — the right one is wounded — 
as though it were out of the question. 

The little parlor is filling with officers. They are 
all bowing and smiling in a friendly way. I appeal 
to one of them, a young chap, handsome in spite of 
the dueling scar across his chin. " We can do noth- 
ing," he says regretfully, in English. The General 
Major, apparently, is reluctant even to ask one of his 
regimental commanders to assume the responsibility 
for us. As if to bid us good-by, the staff is standing 
at attention. We urge the Hauptmann to telephone. 
" I shall try," he says, with rare good nature. Gen- 
eral Major Clauss has closed the door behind him in 
his bedroom, and the Hauptmann buttonholes a Major. 
The Staff officers look at each other in surprise. 
They believed they were well rid of us. Briefly the 
Hauptmann is making the point for us. The young 
officer with the scarred chin puts in a word. The 
Major seems undecided. A lieutenant says something 
that I imagine would translate into, " Telephone, — 
anything to be rid of them," but he regards us with the 
amazing polite smile. 

The Major darts into the kitchen where the tele- 
phones are and then, smiling broadly, Hauptmann 
Kliewer comes in followed by the Major. 

" Permission has been granted," he says, " for you 

103 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

to go to the headquarters of the Seventeenth Regi- 
ment. You will spend the night there, and be here 
at seven in the morning, where I shall meet you with 
the motor,'' 

"Aren't you coming with us, Captain?" somebody 
asks. 

" I'm going to spend the evening in the headquar- 
ters of my own regiment in Commines," the Haupt- 
mann explains. " One of the offlcers here will take 
you to the Seventeenth's headquarters." 

Thanking everybody, we leave the parlor, and the 
oflSicers smile sententiously. We pass through the 
dimly lit kitchen where the tired soldiers sit around 
the table, and cautiously opening that betraying light 
filled door, we file, one at a time, into the stable yard. 
It is still dusk, and as we follow our officer towards 
the narrow road, that meets the one we had taken 
from Houthem, Kliewer bids us good-by. " Be care- 
ful," he calls. His motor drives away, and to my sur- 
prise our car follows. " Call back that driver," I 
say to our officer, " he's made a mistake." 

" No, he is right," smiles the officer. " No auto- 
mobile ever goes up this road. The French would see 
it. It's an easy walk, only a mile." 

We follow him through the mud, finally setting 
foot on the road, less muddy I notice, than the road 
from Houthem. We are on our way to the headquar- 
ters of the Seventeenth Regiment. The dream of 
every correspondent in this war is about to be real- 
ized. We are on our way to spend the night on the 
firing line. 

104 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

5:30. We have been walking ten minutes. We 
have passed a mounted patrol and an unarmed pri- 
vate, walking fast. The long twilight has grayed, 
but even far up the road I can still distinguish the 
posts of the wire fence. We have just passed a 
lonely, brown frame cottage, the last house between 
the open fields and a fringe of wood, when the Lieu- 
tenant stops short and faces us. 

" From now on,'' says the Lieutenant, with that easy 
way of authority, " we shall walk at intervals of 
thirty paces.'' 

I know what that means. Only a few hours be- 
fore, when approaching a battery, Hauptmann Klie- 
wer told us the same thing. I remember his words : 
"Altogether we make too plain a mark. We must 
separate." . . . How uneasy you feel, walking along 
this way. Not only are you gauging your own in- 
terval of thirty paces, but you are careful to keep an 
eye on the others, ready to warn them if they draw 
too close ; and they are keeping an eye on you. You 
expect something to happen. Uneasy, you watch the 
sky, but no shrapnel is bursting nearby. Ahead 
somewhere the artillery is booming, but here every- 
thing is quiet. This walking along, pacing your dis- 
tance, restlessly glancing to right and left, and lis- 
tening, is getting on my nerves. No wonder I can't 
hear anything. The flaps of that aviator's cap are 
tight around my ears. Expectantly I unloosen them. 
And then I hear it, above us, a sound that makes me 
stop short; a sound as though a giant had sucked in 
his breath. 

105 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Above us a shell is screaming on its way to the 
French trenches. From beyond the woods the can- 
nonading sounds heavier. Through the trees, where 
the road bends to the right, a row of roofless houses 
seems ghostly gray in the dusk. " That's what's left 
of Hollenbeck," I am saying to Poole; " I heard the 
Major say we'd pass through it." And then it seems 
as though the air is being sucked in all around us; 
it shrills to a multitude of strange whistlings. The 
fence wire rings; a twig rattles along the dried limbs 
of a tree and floats down; something spats against 
a stone and goes ricocheting away. I'm positive we're 
going to be hit; the air is wild with bullets. The 
trees are closer. There we'll be safe. Why don't the 
others hurry, so that we can move faster, too? 

And then, right on the road, almost where my heel 
has just lifted, a bullet strikes. The dirt flies high. 
Instinctively I lurch forward and fall on one knee. 
Forgetting his blanket, Poole bends over me. " Did 
you get it? " he asks. I wonder if I didn't, and 
look at my foot. " It was close," he says, relieved ; 
" I heard the thing hit right behind you." 

^^ I don't think we're seen," I unconcernedly try to 
say. " They wouldn't have let us come up here if 
we were. These must be wild bullets flying above 
the trenches. They're just beyond the wood, you 
know." 

" Too wild," is Poole's comment, with which I 
agree. We are climbing a slight hill now, the road 
turning to the right into Hollenbeck, a silent place 
of unroofed, shell-battered houses. Here you feel 

106 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

safe for the walls protect you, but over our head the 
loud whining of the German shells keeps up the sound 
of war. Passing the last house we come upon two 
squads of soldiers waiting in its shelter, and as we go 
on out into the open road, they grin. The dusk is 
turning to black, and ahead it is hard to tell where 
the tops of that clump of trees leave off, and the sky 
begins. I am certain that those trees are our desti- 
nation, and although the bullets are whistling again, 
one feels safe. 

A few minutes' walking and we have turned into 
what seems to be a wooded lawn. A hundred feet 
away the vague shape of a low roofed house marks it- 
self by a thin bar of light, evidently from a closed 
door. The lawn is muddy, and as, walking in single 
file, we cross on planks, the liquid ground soshes 
beneath our feet. As we approach what seems to be 
the stable of a farm, those in front walk slower, and 
even slower descend into the earth. Poole and I fol- 
low them down a flight of rough stone steps, and see- 
ing two uprights of stout logs standing as a doorway 
and, level with my head as I descend, a roof of tree 
trunks and dirt, I whisper, " Bombproof." 

The opening of what seems to be an old kitchen 
door. A warning to keep your head down, and we go 
stooping into a room dug in the ground, at the other 
end of which a genial, gray-haired man, whom you 
instantly decide is Colonel Meyer of the Seventeenth 
Infantry, is rising from beside a homemade table 
spread with military maps, a hospitable smile on his 
ruddy face. 

107 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" Welcome," he is saying in German. " So you got 
up the road all right? " 

A sudden suspicion possesses me, and after intro- 
ductions are over, I ask : " Colonel, there were too 
many bullets on that road. Where did they come 
from? Wild?" 

" Wild? " he chuckled. " Why, sir, that road is our 
line of communication. It is watched and is covered 
by French sharpshooters. We lose half a dozen men 
on it every day." 

And the officers at Brigade Headquarters smiled. 

5 :57 P. M. The broad wooden benches against the 
walls seem to us as comfortable as a cushioned lounge, 
and repeating, with many a ^^ glaube mir^' — which 
the Colonel and his Adjutant are quick to catch on to 
as the " believe me " of American slang — that wild 
horses couldn't drag us out on that road again, we 
take in the details of the room. It is about ten feet 
from where I sit to the strip of burlap covering the 
earthen wall behind the opposite bench. I should say 
that from the shelf, where the Colonel has his personal 
belongings, down to the other end of the room, which 
the glow from our big oil table lamp only lights 
faintly, is about twenty-five feet, enough for men to 
sleep on the benches along either wall. In the middle 
squats a red bellied stove, its pipe going up through 
the roof. The door looks as if it came from a farm- 
house kitchen; it is paneled with four little squares 
of glass, one of them cracked, probably from the con- 
cussion of a bursting shell. 

108 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

Yes, the timbers overhead look strong, intensely 
safe unless a grenat should burst squarely on top 
of them. And only by one chance in a thousand 
could a shrapnel ball fly down through the door. 
Yes, it seems safe in here ; slowly we began to forget 
about the road. The Colonel excuses himself to study 
a map that seems to have been done by a stencil, and 
I cannot help but notice that it has been executed to 
the most minute detail, even individual trees and 
bushes being marked. I wonder what the scale is. 
I have to compel myself to glance elsewhere, for the 
fascination of the map is strong. 

Above the shelf that runs across the end of the 
room, just so high that the Colonel who is sitting be- 
side me, can reach up and take from it what he wants, 
stands a large square mirror. It seems also to be 
doing service as a visiting card tray, for stuck in the 
frame are five or six cards bearing the names of offi- 
cers and their regiments. Somebody is taking good 
care of the Colonel — I imagine he's married — for 
the shelf is filled with luxuries, boxes of cigars and 
cigarettes, bottles of liquor, and there's a quart of 
sparkling Moselle ! Strewn in a long row are all va- 
rieties of those wonderful food pastes that Germany 
began to put up so extensively in tubes, since the war 
— Strassburg gooselivers, anchovies, rum chocolate. 
Colonel, you're living well down here ! 

It's queer how you can, in a few minutes, learn the 
tastes and habits of a man in a place like this. The 
Colonel is religious. There is a crucifix fastened to 
the burlap over my head. The Colonel must sleep on 

109 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

this bench. At the ends of his shelf, I see two other 
crucifixes, and there, standing on the top of a box of 
cigars, is a colored print, a Station of the Cross. 
I begin to know the Colonel better than if I had ob- 
served him for months in his Bavarian home. As I 
gaze at him now, bending over the map, that in his 
preoccupation he has pushed farther across the table, 
the lamp's yellow glow shows me his face in relief 
against the shadowed walls. It is a strong face, and 
kind; the chin is grim and square, but the eyes are 
big and gentle, grayish though, the color of a fighter. 
The gray mustache almost hides it, but reveals enough 
of the full mouth of one who is not ascetic. As for 
the crucifixes and the picture ; they belong to the eyes. 
A seasoned man, the Colonel. 

With a nervous start, that seems incongruous with 
his broad shoulders, the Colonel looks up. Then, ap- 
pearing suddenly to remember something, he pushes 
the map towards me. I see it is a map of his position. 

*^ There," he says, running his finger the length of 
a broken line in the upper right hand corner, " are 
the French trenches.'' " There," and he points to 
lines paralleling them, " is our position. Here," and 
his finger travels down the map, to rest on a group 
of oblongs and squares, " is where w^e are now. This 
unterstand/^ and he makes a mark beside the smallest 
square, " was dug next to the shed where the farmer 
kept his wagons. This place is known as . . ." 
Were I to name this place, it would, upon publication, 
be cabled to France, and telephoned out to the French 
artillery positions. " Now," and the Colonel smiles 

110 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

and runs his finger along a thick blue line that makes 
an angle and then disappears at the lower end of the 
map, "that is the road by which you came from 
Houthem, and at this point you were fired upon. 
Notice the curve that the French trenches make. 
From the extremity of that trench," and the Colonel 
indicates an imaginary line sweeping a section of the 
road, " it is not a thousand meters, easy for a sharp- 
shooter." 

" And that," I laugh, and I'm trying to make this 
gaiety real, " is the point that we don't care about 
crossing when we return." 

" Can we not go back by some other road," Poole 
suggests, " a longer way, making a detour? " 

The Colonel shakes his head with a reluctant smile. 

I hear then the same buzzing that I heard in the 
kitchen at Brigade headquarters. And from the top 
of a varnished box, on the floor where I had not seen 
it, the Adjutant picks up a telephone. ^^ Hier ist 
Siehzehn Bayrischer Regiment/^ he calls, and hands 
the instrument across the table to the Colonel. ^'' Hier 
ist Oherst Meyer/' says the Colonel, ^' Ja , . . Jawohl 
... Adieu/' With a chuckle, he turns to us. 
" That was Hauptmann Kliewer," he explains, " tele- 
phoning from Houthem. Somebody must have told 
him there about the road. He was rather concerned 
for you, but I assured him that you were about to take 
dinner." 

Feebly we try to protest. But the Colonel in- 
sists that we'll have to eat with him, and we all feel 
guilty and self-conscious. It's just like these Ger- 

111 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

mans to share their black bread and army wurst with 
us. But this is the firing line ; this bombproof is only 
eight hundred meters from the French trenches, and 
every scrap of food must count. An electric torch 
flashes on the wall outside the door ; some one is com- 
ing down. A black mustached, young Bavarian comes 
in, and picking up the varnished box, which I now see 
sprouts with vine-like wires that climb up the wall 
and out under the roof, he carries the telephone away. 
The door opens again and another private comes in. 
Clicking his heels in a salute, he bows low from the 
waist, and then announces dinner. In bewilderment 
we look at each other and follow the Colonel up the 
earthen stairs. 

" I always dine," Colonel Meyer seems to be apolo- 
gizing, " in the farmhouse." 

Overhead a stray bullet whistles, and I hear it rat- 
tling through the dried tops of the trees. 

7 :05 p. M. It seems safe, until leaving the shelter 
of the bar, we see that we have to cross an open space 
before reaching the farmhouse. I can see, standing 
outside the door there, the vague form of a soldier. 
He passes the shaded window, a faint orange square 
in the shadowy wall, and his bayonet flashes. As we 
cross this open space the Adjutant is asking us to turn 
off our electric lamps, for their reflection might at- 
tract French observers. So we trust to luck in the 
darkness and, slipping in mud, dart behind the shel- 
ter of the farmhouse. I hear a bullet thudding 
against the stone wall of the barn. 

112 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

The door creaks open and we go in. As I gape 
around, the fragrance of good cooking comes from a 
coal stove, crammed with tall cylindrical army pots. 
The room is evidently the kitchen — a typical farm- 
house kitchen with a wide fireplace of red bricks and 
a long mixing table along the wall by the shade-drawn 
window. Tacked to a slate-colored pantry door is a 
calendar with the month of October not yet torn off, 
and on top of the fireplace an old wooden clock that 
has run down at half past four — was it on the day the 
Germans came? " Sit down, gentlemen,'' the Colonel 
is saying, indicating a round kitchen table, around 
which six chairs are crowded. On a snow white cloth 
our places have been set. There are not enough 
forks to go round so some have soup spoons. I see 
only three knives, so some of us will have to use our 
pocket knives. A comfortable yellow light falls from 
the yellow lamp in the center of the table. We be- 
gin to feel as snug as a fireside cat. " Our knives 
and forks are rather limited," apologizes the Adju- 
tant, who introduces himself as Hauptmann Roller, 
a tall handsome Bavarian with a scraggy black 
growth on his chin. " However, there are dishes 
enough to go around.'' I begin to have a suspicion 
that our sympathy has been absurd. Black bread 
and army wurst never gave out the odors that are com- 
ing from those pots on the stoves, and then our sur- 
prise is complete when the Colonel offers us a cock- 
tail. Cocktails, and the French trenches eight hun- 
dred meters away ! 

"A German cocktail," smiles the Colonel, as he 

113 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

pours out the white schnapps^ " not like the kind you 
have in America. One of my friends had a bottle of 
them in Mtinchen — Bronx cocktails/' and the Col- 
onel makes a grimace. There are only two cordial 
glasses, but by passing them around, we succeed in 
drinking the ColoneFs health. As we take our seats 
at the table I notice that while four of the chairs seem 
to belong to the kitchen, the other two are richly 
tapestried. There must be a chateau near here. The 
Colonel is sitting in one of them and Dunn in the 
other. Leave it to Dunn to be lounging in the other 
tapestried chair. Hauptmann Roller, who is oppo- 
site, is hacking off chunks of bread from a round rye 
loaf. On my other side Eeed is looking at the bottle 
of schnapps and wearing his unextinguishable smile. 

A soldier brings a pot from the stove and the Col- 
onel serves us. It is an oxtail stew, canned of course, 
but smells appetizing. " The Colonel hasn't any left 
for himself,'' exclaims Poole; but the Colonel is hold- 
ing up his hand. " There is plenty," he says, and the 
soldier brings another steaming pot. Magically, tall, 
dark liter bottles make their appearance and on the 
labels I see ^^ Hacker-Brau/' 

" Miinchener Beer," cries Reed. " Isn't this amaz- 
ing? " The Colonel looks at Hauptmann Roller and 
grins. I think that from their viewpoint they are 
enjoying it as much as we. Canned boiled beef fol- 
lows the stew ; more of the tall, dark bottles appear. 
I see a soldier open a green door in the wall at my 
left and, reaching into what is evidently another 
room, straighten up with his arms full of beer bot- 

114 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

ties. " That is our Bierkeller in there," explains Kel- 
ler. Dunn decides that it is the very place for him 
to sleep. 

*^ Colonel," says Poole, pointing at the wall behind 
me, " what did you do, have those windows boarded 
up so that the light wouldn't be seen? " 

Hauptmann Roller is laughing and rubbing his 
frowsy chin in delight. 

" Those are not windows," the Colonel says, with a 
laugh. " They are shell holes." We press Roller 
to give us the story : " The Colonel was dictating a 
report in here one morning. That orderly was writ- 
ing it," and Roller nods towards the smiling, good- 
looking private with the Iron Cross, who is writing 
at the mixing table. " Without warning, for our bat- 
tery was not in action and there was nothing to draw 
the French fire, two shrapnels tore through the wall 
and burst in the room. . You can see the holes their 
balls made in the other walls and the floor — and the 
Colonel wasn't hit ! " 

With a wave of his hand the Colonel indicates the 
last of three cots against the wall. " I was sitting 
on the edge of that bed," he says, " and the shells 
passed over the other two beds." 

Almost incredulously we gaze at him as if to make 
sure that he is wounded but doesn't know it. 

I am staring now at the walls and ceiling, trying 
to count the little shrapnel holes. Above the Col- 
onel's head there is an Empire mirror that never hung 
in any farmhouse, and perched upon it a brass-black, 
hair-plumed helmet of a French Cuirassier. 

115 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" Out in the yard," remarks the Colonel, " there is 
an unexploded shell, one of the French * twenty- 
eights.' It fell there one day and didn't burst. We 
had one of our ordnance experts up to examine it, 
but he says it won't explode now. If it did, it would 
blow up the house." 

So we sit here thinking of the silent guest in the 
yard outside. I forget that there is something more 
to eat. W^ith the cheese and coffee, the evening con- 
cert begins. A German field piece in the woods close 
by has opened fire. Suddenly the night is roaring 
with the bursting of shells, and down in the trenches 
the rifles begin their incessant harsh croaking. The 
Colonel is looking at the tiny watch dial on his wrist. 
" The same as last night," he remarks to Hauptmann 
Koller, adding to us, " The French always open heavy 
fire at eight." 

That's the third German officer I've heard make 
that statement in as many days. The French always 
shelled Mouchy at three; they put grenaten in Hou- 
them every evening at six; they concentrated their 
fire here at eight. Frenchmen, the last people in the 
world you would suspect of systemization ! 

" They'll keep it up," continues the Colonel, " until 
two, and then they'll stop and begin again at five for 
two hours. We know exactly what to expect from 
them. They're hammering on us, for we hold the 
furthest front on this part of the line. I dare not 
advance any further until my supports come up." 

We ask him to tell us something about the fighting 
here. 

116 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

" The French attacked on December second," says 
Colonel Meyer, " more than a month ago. They came 
in columns of fours, and you can see them now, lying 
out there between the trenches in columns of fours. 
They were mowed down, and for a month the fighting 
has been so heavy that they can't get out to bury their 
dead. You can see them afterwards when the rockets 
go up. They make it quite bright." 

" How many rockets. Colonel, do you send up in a 
night? " 

" About a hundred generally." 

" And how many men on an average are in the 
trenches? " 

The Colonel considers long. ^^ That varies greatly," 
he says finally. " At some points only 400 men of 
a regiment are in the trenches, at a time; at others, 
800. I have used as high as 1200 for repelling a hard 
attack." 

" Strange things happen, fighting the French," he 
muses. " The night after they were cut up so, they 
were ordered to attack again. As soon as it came 
dark, one of our soldiers heard a Frenchman calling 
across to him in German. The Frenchman had 
crawled across from his own trench on his belly. 
^ Don't shoot,' he told my man. ' Two hundred sol- 
diers and an officer want to surrender.' The soldier 
kept him covered, and sent for an under officer. They 
telephoned me from the trenches and I told them to 
let the Frenchmen come over if they threw down their 
arms. And two hundred Frenchmen with their of- 
ficers, did come over. I asked their officer why they 

117 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

had surrendered, and he told me that the order had 
come to storm our trenches again that night, and that 
all day his men had been looking out and seeing their 
comrades lying in the mud in columns of fours, and 
that they nearly went mad.'' And the Colonel slowly 
shakes his head. " I saw them lying there, too. I 
can understand how it affected them." 

As Hauptmann Roller pushes back his chair and 
goes to the fireplace, I notice that his shoulder straps 
are covered with meaningless cloth; no sharpshooter 
will pick him for choice game. And from beside the 
old wooden clock Roller takes down a box of cigars, 
piling on it a tin of cigarettes, while with the other 
hand he picks up a bottle of Anisette. " They're Aus- 
trian cigars," he says, " but they're all right." While 
we are lighting up, he pours out the Anisette. This 
time we drink Roller's health and then the officers 
insist upon drinking ours ; we return with a toast to 
Bavaria. Colonel comes back with a standing health 
to the United States. ' 

" Tell them," he begs, " that we are not barbarians. 
I have a sister who lives in Wyckoff, New York, and 
I'm afraid that by reading your newspapers, she 
thinks that I've become a terrible ogre." Again the 
Colonel is the easy smiling host. 

The door opens ; a private comes in and sits by the 
telephone. He moves it down the mixing table quite 
close to us. " Is it time for the concert? " asks the 
Colonel. 

Hauptmann Roller nods. "At eight thirty. It's 
that now." 

118 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

^^ Gut! '^ and the Colonel indicates us with a wave 
of his hand, " Gentlemen, be my guests at our regular 
evening concert." 

We look at each other blankly. The Colonel seems 
to have a huge joke up his sleeve. He is bustling 
about the telephone like a man dressing a Christmas 
tree. He takes up the instrument and holds it to his 
ear. " Come," he says, beckoning me. I pick up the 
receiver and almost drop it in my amazement. Some- 
where an excellent pianist is playing the Valkerie. 
In a spell, I listen to the music, each note retaining 
its sweetness over the wire. The music stops ; I hear 
a flutter of handclapping. 

^^ Where is it? " I gasp, coming over to the table. 

" That comes from the headquarters in Houthem," 
explains Koller, while the Colonel nods, smiling, as 
with a surprise well planned. " That was General 
Major Clauss at the piano. He was playing under 
great difficulties." 

" The man with the wounded hand ! " I exclaim. 
Poole takes up the 'phone. 

" He is playing Tristam," whispers Poole, and out- 
side I hear the growing fury of the shells and the crash 
of the German field piece close by. The Colonel is 
telling me how on Christmas Eve they played ^^ Hei- 
lige Nacht ^^ for them, down in Houthem, and that 
while he was listening to the music a heavy shell burst 
down in the trenches, killing eight of his men. But 
I am not following half of what he says. Everything 
seems to be in a daze. It is all too incredible. We 
have finished what seemed to be one of the best savory 

119 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

dinners I have ever eaten. The supply of golden- 
brown Miinchener beer seems to be limitless. We are 
finishing with coffee, cigarettes, cigars, and a cor- 
dial ; and now a concert. And outside the sky is hid- 
eous with war, and eight hundred meters away are 
the French. And this is war. 

Koller is at the 'phone now. " When General 
Clauss is through," I tell him, " ask him to play some- 
thing from Chopin." In a moment Koller nods for 
me to come over. And I am listening to the opening 
bars — perhaps my nerves are overstrained — but I 
hear a noise that sounds like a bullet hitting a wire 
fence, and the music is still. Snatching up the 'phone 
the orderly tries in vain for a connection and finally 
transfers it to another wire. Perhaps, after all, I 
heard only a normal snapping of the wire. Imagina- 
tion plays strange tricks in this world of uncanny 
and violent impressions. 

The door opens and an orderly comes in with the 
mail. There are two letters for the Colonel, and 
while he is reading them Koller opens a bottle of 
cognac. The Colonel is stuffing one of the letters in- 
side his coat. His eyes are wet and, not to embarrass 
him, I watch Hauptmann Koller measuring out the 
cognac. Probably a letter from the ColonePs wife. 
The door opens again; the room fills with officers^ 
who click their heels and bow to us. " The relief," 
whispers Koller. 

A thin, gray-mustached man, whose precise speech 
makes you think of a university professor, comes 
forward; the Colonel remains on his feet. The room 

120 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

seems to stiffen with military etiquette. The Ma- 
jor, is making his report to the Colonel. I catch 
the words : " They put heavy shells on us, beginning 
with eleven o'clock last night and lasting until one." 
What time is it now? Ten thirty-three. Soon the 
shelling starts. It is a very detailed report and, un- 
folding his map, the Colonel spreads it on the table 
and indicates a position. The Major studies it and 
offers some thoughtful comment. How like those 
Civil War plays played in New York years ago, in 
fact identical in situation. The Colonel gives some 
orders, asks if there are any questions, and to the 
clicking of heels and polite adieus, the relief officers 
file out. They are going to the trenches. 

The good looking private with the Iron Cross sa- 
lutes. " Sir, the concert is ready.'^ 

What! do they keep it up all night? But the Col- 
onel is getting up, leading us out of the room. We 
follow him out into the night — and the sky seems 
faintly luminous with weird light — going along the 
farmhouse wall until we come to a short flight of 
steps into the ground. Descending, we are seated in 
an extremely low-roofed bombproof, in which five sol- 
diers, half in uniform, are sitting around a wooden 
table. They look like the comic band of the music 
halls. One has a harmonica, another a flute, another 
sits before an inverted glass bowl, which he is ready 
to tap with a bayonet tip and beside him is the guitar 
man — a wonderfully made guitar, its wires, tele- 
phone strings, its box, a case for canned goods, planed 
thin ; and there is a serious-faced drummer. But fac- 

121 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

ing them, blase and autocratic, is a man with sensitive 
features and pince nez. He has discarded his uni- 
form for an old black coat, and with a dirty hat pulled 
down over his eyes, he suggests the Jewish comedian 
of burlesque. Evidently he is the leader for, raising 
a bayonet scabbard, counting, ^^ Ein, zwei, drei,' he 
brings it down and the concert begins. 

You recognize Puppcheiv. Leisurely beating time, 
sipping a glass of coffee that our orderly with the 
Iron Cross has filled for him from a pot that simmers 
on the squat coal stove, the leader is having the time 
of his life. They play some old German Folk songs, 
and once the harmonica man is late in starting and 
receives a boisterous reprimand from the leader. 
They are singing now, ^^ Roslein auf der Heide . . . 
M or gen Rot,' and you think how sinister the words 
are, " leads me to an early death.'' Red morning ! 
Will it ever be for them? Even here under the earth 
I can hear the hungry groAvling of the shells. 

Modestly the leader is telling us that the Bavarian 
musicians are the best in Germany, " therefore our 
band is the best in the trenches," and the Colonel is 
beaming on them all. The orderly with the Iron 
Cross, who, unable to speak a word of English, has 
been smiling at me all night, urges us to take some 
more coffee; and it's " Good-by, boys! Good Luck," 
and we're out into the battle-shaken night. 

"Want to have a look at it?" Hauptmann Roller 
asks me. I nod, yes. Hugging the wall. Roller and 
I turn the corner of the barn and slowly go down the 
open space between the buildings, that we had rushed 

122 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

past earlier in the evening, plastering ourselves 
against the walls. As if that would do us any good ! 
We can hear the French bullets whistling by, and the 
air is shaking with heavy guns. 

" After eleven/' remarks Roller, " I fancy the 
French are at it with big grenaten/^ and as he speaks 
I see a flash in the trees not two hundred meters away 
and a field piece discharges with a crash. " Our 
seven answering them/' Roller is pointing towards 
where a greenish light seems to flash in the sky. 
" Over there about a mile/' he says, " is the Ypres 
Canal. The Thirty -sixth Division is on the other 
bank, and as soon as they push back the French, we'll 
go ahead again," he speaks with a quiet confidence 
that makes you feel that the advance of his regiment 
is a matter of course. 

" Come down here," he suggests, " and you can see 
the battle. Don't scorn the shelter of those trees. 
Reep them between you and the trenches. Go from 
one tree to the other." 

I hear him splash through the mud; he is waving 
from behind a tree. I plow after him, going so fast 
that I almost slip and fall. The whistle of a bullet 
will make you move faster than you ever thought pos- 
sible. Out of breath we come to the edge of the lit- 
tle grove and look out on the battlefield. 

It is all color and noise — unearthly colors, un- 
earthly noises. I stand at the edge of an Inferno. 
The heavens streak with a sulphurous green, and the 
earth is scarred with flame. I see the rockets swish- 
ing up from the trenches, breaking with the weird 

123 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

light that would reveal any enemy creeping up, and 
falling in a shower of sparks, like shooting stars. It 
gives a strange confirmation of an old saying that 
when a star falls some one dies. 

I see the steady, streaming, reddish line of rifle fire 
and the yellow flash of shells. I hear their fierce, 
harsh croaking and their deafening boom. I see, in 
the burst of a rocket, the wet fields glistening with 
mud; and the night crashes and rolls with awful 
clamor. 

Roller is handing me his binoculars. Through 
them I can see the Ypres Canal, a monstrous glisten- 
ing water snake, sleepily drinking the blood of men. 
It is a green night, a green land, a universe gone mad, 
for the sky was never meant to shine with those hid- 
eous lights. And the rockets spread their fiery trail 
and spill their hideous glare; and the line of fire 
brightens and grows dim and brightens again; per- 
haps as men are falling and others are springing to 
their places, and I turn my glasses on the glistening 
fields, and think I can see the columns of fours, the 
mounds of the dirt, the color of the mud, and I can 
hear the bullets panging in the mud at our feet. 
How they must be riddling the bodies of the dead ! 

" I've had enough," I tell Hauptmann Roller. 

We say good night and cross the farmyard. The 
din of the battle seems to have died down, although 
the bullets still whistle and rattle among the dried 
trees. We lie down on the benches in the bombproof, 
with our clothes on, with the dirty blankets over us. 
Our night of nights is done. 

121 



A NIGHT BEFORE YPRES 

12 P. M. to 6 A. M. Bits of dirt from the ceiling fall 
on my face. Hauptmann Roller is snoring. . . . The 
guns are rumbling again. Roller snores blissfully 
on. The cannonading is terrific. Those poor devils 
down in the trenches. . . . The cannonading sounds 
fainter and fainter. . . . The handsome orderly with 
the Iron Cross is flashing a lamp on Roller's blanket. 
" All right/' calls Roller, but in a moment he's snor- 
ing. Only stray rifles are crackling now. The glow- 
ing phosphorescent face of the watch on my wrist 
shows six o'clock. Morning! Hauptmann Roller is 
already out of bed. 

" Good morning," he says, with a yawn. " The or- 
derly was in a minute ago. Breakfast will be served 
at six-thirty." 

In the trenches it's the hour when they pick up the 
dead. 



125 



VII 

IN THE TRENCHES 

IJY the first of October, 1914, every European war 
map had become a bore. After Von Kluck had con- 
ducted what a United States military attache in Ber- 
lin told me was the most masterly retreat in the his- 
tory of the world, the black fishhook line stopped 
moving across northern France and fastening its barb 
in Belgium, it ceased to move. Day after day, as we 
read the newspapers we saw that the line was the 
same ; perhaps near Dixmude or Mulhausen it changed 
from time to time, but by November first it was evi- 
dent that it was there to stay — for a time at least — 
and war maps became a bore. The reality of that 
line of ink is not, I assure you. 

The next time you read your newspaper, glance 
again at the map of the West front. Follow the line 
that begins on the Channel above Calais, turning 
southeast above Ypres and ending in the passes of the 
Vosges in Alcasse; and then think of it in this way. 
On the dunes you can enter a ditch that has been dug 
across Europe from the English Channel to Mul- 
hausen. You can walk about three hundred miles un- 
der ground, eat three meals a day, and sleep on offi- 
cers' cots without once having to expose yourself in 
the open. You will realize as you see second, third, 
and fourth trenches parallel and connecting by 

126 



IN THE TRENCHES 

labyrinthine passages that the amount of excavating 
required would dig a subway. The labor involved 
in the New York Aqueduct, the Chicago Subway, the 
irrigation works of our West seem trivial when you 
consider this work was done under fire. 

Before I came to Germany I was told : " There is 
not much doing in the West. Both armies are mark- 
ing time." Since then the battle line has become 
about three hundred miles long. A surgeon in the 
Feld Lazarette, in Vis-en-Artois, told me that they 
had on the average ten wounded a day and that their 
hospital was fed by a segment of the front about two 
miles long. When you recall the terrific fighting near 
the Channel ports, this average is not high for the 
whole line. So when you glance at the little map in 
your newspaper think of it as meaning three thousand 
w^ounded men a day, ninety thousand a month, and 
a tenth as many dead. Remember also the Ypres Ca- 
nal, where soldiers have gone mad and thrown them- 
selves into red water, and at the same time the field 
of Soissons, strewn twice with the dead; of men in 
the trenches of the Argonne, undermined, dynamited, 
their bodies blown as high as leafless forest trees. 

Again, when any one says to you, " There is not 
much doing in the West," imagine a three hundred 
mile line with three quarters of a million soldiers 
standing in muddy brown w^ater, and three quarters 
of a million more, too, whom they have just relieved, 
lying on beds of straw, too exhausted to remove their 
uniforms until it is time to wash ; think of that line 
in which for every five minutes of every day a German 

127 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

is being killed — and God knows how many English, 
French and Belgians. 

For two days I had been in the vicinity of Lille with 
Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann of the Great General 
Staff. Near Labasse I had seen the trenches at night, 
but I wanted to see them by day ; for at night the sol- 
diers are all keyed high ; it is then that the hard fight- 
ing is done. What did they do with themselves during 
the day? It was at Lille, the fifth night after I had 
left Berlin, that I met five other American cor- 
respondents, a Hollander and a Norwegian, who were 
in Hauptmann Kliewer's party. After dinner in the 
Hotel de Europe, Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann, who 
had gone with Hauptmann Kliewer to the Staif of the 
Second Bavarian Army Corps, told me that from now 
on the two parties would travel together until we 
reached Brussels. " In the morning," he said, ^^ we 
go to the trenches in front of Arras. You must be 
here in the lobby ready to take the motor not later 
than six." 

In the inky darkness of a clear, cold morning three 
army automobiles left the Hotel de Europe and roared 
away through the streets of Lille. A Second Army 
Corps officer whom Bob Dunn, the New York Fosfs 
correspondent, was apologetically explaining as being 
a cousin of his, rode in the first car. This officer, who 
had never traveled the road to Arras before, was act- 
ing as our guide; soon we understood Dunn's apolo- 
getic way, for after one challenge upon another came 
ringing out of the night, and we had stopped to have 
our papers read in the lantern light of sentries and 

128 



IN THE TRENCHES 

patrols, Dunn's cousin lost the way. " I knew he 
would," remarked Dunn. " No one related to me 
could go straight.^' 

The officer tried again. He took us along the 
crumbling path of war, along a road where under a 
dark centered half moon we saw in the silvery graying 
light the lanes of abandoned trenches and rows of 
gaping shell torn houses, while one by one the stars 
turned to tiny icicle tips, and day slowly came on. I 
think after crossing the Ypres Canal at Douai, that 
we followed every blind alley between there and 
Vitry, for turning one corner after another, with 
each new row of poplars coloring clearer against a 
brightening sky, we seemed to come no nearer to the 
boom of the guns. 

As we plowed through a heavy cross road to 
Mouchy le Preux and came out on the highway to 
Arras, we saw a German battery. The last stars had 
withdrawn, and in the grayish morning light the 
clanking field pieces lumbered by, a ghostly company 
with vague gray ghostly men on ghostly horses. I 
imagined they were moving parallel to the firing line, 
changing position. How close were we now? Prob- 
ably six kilometers. Two miles riding up the road 
to Arras with the battlefield of October 1st, the 
muddy, desolated fields on either side. It was up 
this road that the French artillery made its retreat, 
across those fields that their infantry poured with 
the Duke of Altenburg's Saxonians in hot pursuit. 
Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann had told me that the 
French had given way all along the line here before 

129 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

the German second drive, retreating to Arras, which 
they now held. I remember that he had spoken of 
Arras as an objective and that the Germans were con- 
stantly drawing nearer. How close were they now? 
How far from the French would we be in the trench? 
One began to feel a tremulous excitement. 

Hauptmann Kliewer and Ober-Lieutenant Herr- 
mann told us that this was as far as they dared go with 
the motors. To approach closer than two kilometers 
to Arras with automobiles, and we easily would be dis- 
cerned by the French artillery observers. Evidently 
having been telephoned that we were coming, two gray 
cloaked officers were waiting for us outside a little 
brown shack that I guessed was regimental headquar- 
ters. The Captain, an intelligent looking Prussian 

— and, by the way, I've yet to see one of the upturned 
mustached bullies of whom our cartoonists are so 
fond — spoke perfect English. 

" Leave your overcoats here,'' he advised. " It's 
rather warm going up to the trenches." Then he 
glanced at our feet and gave an approving nod. " No 
pumps or gaiters, I see. That's good ; you'll be up to 
your knees in water," and as I walked up the road 
towards Arras, he told me that two Italian journal- 
ists — any newspaper man is a journalist in Europe 

— had visited the trenches at Arras. And the Cap- 
tain laughed. " One wore a pair of gray spats and 
the other had one of those artist ties, those black 
fluffy things. One of our soldiers drew a sketch of 
them." When we had gone about a hundred yards, 
we turned to the right, descending by an abrupt run- 

130 



IN THE TRENCHES 

away into a trench that dug in a plowed field, led 
away at right angles from the road. More than a 
thousand meters from the French trench, and with 
rifle fire yet to begin, and shielded by the very fact that 
you walked in a narrow pit seven feet under ground, 
comparatively less in danger than you had been in the 
motor from Mouchy le Preux on, you nevertheless 
tingled with a strange exhilaration. Keeping one eye 
on the top of the trench, prepared to duck, lest it 
suddenly became uniform in height and expose your 
head to the open field, gazing the rest of the time at 
the bottom of the pit, lest you slip in a hole and go 
sprawling in the yellow liquid ooze, we followed 
the officers, slavishly imitating their movements of 
progress. Then we came to another trench that made 
a right angle with our own, advancing towards the 
firing line, parallel to the road we had left as unsafe, 
exactly as in the approach trenches at Labasse. But 
as w^e trudged on, splashing now and then through 
water to our knees, we no longer imitated the officers. 
They walked as before, unconcernedly and erect. We 
were going along ducking our backs, for shrapnel was 
beginning to fly in a neighboring field, and I heard it 
panging in the mud on all sides. 

It was light now, although a fleecy white moon 
still hung in the sky, and as it grew brighter, one after 
another, the batteries began the forenoon cannonade, 
and as I heard the bursting shrapnel ever growing 
more numerous, I guessed it was the same as at that 
other point on the line where I had been two days be- 
fore, where the French cannonade before and after 

131 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

luncheon, always beginning at the same time. And 
then directly above me I heard the disconcerting burst 
of shrapnel and I saw the pretty billowing white 
clouds that the explosion always makes, and knowing 
that to be directly under shrapnel is to be out of 
danger for the little balls spray like the stream of a 
watering cart, I comfortably watched the smoke un- 
til it drifted away, thinning like blown silk. 

From the field the trench sloped up into a deserted 
house. Obviously a part of the trench, I saw the wall 
of the house had been pierced to make a passage the 
same width of the ditch, and that in the far wall there 
loomed a similar passage doubtless leading down into 
the trench again. As I walked through the ground 
floor rooms of the house, it reminded me of something 
I had seen from the windows of the military train 
that had brought me from Metz to Lille. There the 
survey of the German pioneers had hit through the 
middle of certain villages, and I had seen houses flush 
against the track, with their side walls torn off so 
that the trains might pass without smashing into 
them; and I had seen everything in the disordered 
rooms of those houses. Here it was the same, only 
this time war had invaded homes with a trench instead 
of a train. First one, then through a doorway into 
a second room in utter disorder. I saw concentric 
holes that marked the entrance and exit of a shell and 
the confusion of turmoil and pillage. A bureau with 
the drawers emptied out, clothing strewn on the floor, 
a baby's high chair overturned, a crucifix lying broken 
in a heap of fallen plaster, those rooms seemed to be 

132 



IN THE TRENCHES 

a contrast, a chaos, the picture of the illimitable 
dissolution of war in one home. Into the trench 
again, up another slope through another silent house, 
through a stableyard, vile with blackish typhus water, 
and so on along a path of desolation, if not where the 
trench led through farmhouses where it pierced un- 
harvested beet fields, with the panging of shrapnel 
and now the sucking whistle of rifle balls until we 
came to another and wider trench. This at right 
angles to our own, crossed the road to Arras, 

" This is the line,'' the Captain explained. " The 
French are only two hundred meters away. Don't 
expose yourself, and when you hear shrapnel close, it 
is best to stoop down a little. Come," and turning 
into the pit, he led the way towards the highway. We 
were walking parallel to the French, and they were 
only two hundred meters away. And I thought then 
of it being the great ditch, burrowed under Europe 
for three hundred miles, and I was soon to feel that 
I was among the inhabitants of a new and terrible 
world. 

Your pulse quickened. Back there where you left 
the road and the brown muddy walls about you there 
had come a thrill; as you floundered on up through 
the approaches hearing the burst of shrapnel and the 
spatter of the balls on the soaked field, you were un- 
easy ; but now as you gazed up and down the trench, 
which you have thought of not in so commonplace a 
way as to call it " trench," rather " firing line," as 
slowly its impressions came upon you, they left you 
amazed. This goal that you had been striving for 

133 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

during a whole month was a place where men looked 
bored! 

And how can any one be uneasy or frightened when 
every one else seems as though the very safety of their 
existence is torturing them to death? But that was 
before I went into the advance trenches, for out posts 
make a difference in the soldiers, as I was presently 
to see. 

" This position," explained the Captain, as we 
walked in single file, " was a French trench. We 
did some work on it. Made bombproofs out of some 
of their old rifle pits and dug new ones along what 
was the back of their trenches. Now the French see 
our guns sticking out where their stove pipes u^ed to 
be." 

I noticed one little square doorway after another 
cut in the back wall of the trench, curtained with 
burlap bags, and as we passed, the curtains were 
pushed aside and I saw the soldiers sitting inside 
playing cards by candlelight or smoking and talking, 
and all looking so comfortably bored; just as you 
would imagine them sitting in a Friedrichstrasse cafe 
and watching the crowds go by. " There's no attack- 
ing now," explained the Captain, " so only half the 
men are on duty in the rifle pits. The others lounge 
in their dugouts." 

And as we went further along I saw signs of idle 
time when soldiers revert to childhood and remember 
that they used to dig things in the dirt and sand. 
Here in the trench wall four nitches had been dug, 

134 



IN THE TRENCHES 

three in a line and the other below. And in the upper 
nitches, tiled in various attitudes suggestive of de- 
struction, were three toy battleships, flying tiny Union 
Jacks and below them a toy submarine with U 9 
painted on his gray hull. And I was positive that I 
knew the store in Leipzigerstrasse from which they 
had been sent by Feld Post. 

To the right I saw the short wide passages leading 
up to the rifle pits where two soldiers stood on a plat- 
form cut in the dirt. One was cleaning his gun while 
the other squinted along a rifle barrel that protruded 
through a narrow port reenforced with bags of sand, 
and watched. His manner, the stiffened pose of the 
gray-green shoulders, the boot braced in the ground, 
set him off in increasing alertness and vigilance. In 
one of the dugouts I heard the whine of a harmonica ; 
it was the waltz from " The Dollar Princess." And as 
I came along the line the impression grew on me, the 
men in the rifle pits, crouching statues of war ; and the 
men in the dugouts behind, wondering what to do 
with their time. 

The trench sloped upwards and we were crossing 
the road to Arras, but I could not see the village, for 
there loomed a barrier of sandbags six feet high ; and 
thrust through this gray wall, I saw a machine gun, 
with a soldier dabbing it with oil, while another 
peered through a slit towards Arras. It was obvious 
that the gun was trained on the road. A Lieutenant 
came to meet us. 

" The Lieutenant," said the Captain, after he had 

135 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

introduced us, " is in command of this section of the 
trench." 

As we followed up along the line, I began to think 
of the French as being only two hundred meters away 
and that it was uncanny not to see them. Every now 
and then the whistle of a bullet told you that they too 
were watching this trench just as the Germans were 
watching theirs, and in an empty field, a quarter of 
a mile away, grenaten were bursting with terrific 
din. Yet perversely you half doubted that the French 
were there at all. Subconsciously the thing didn't 
seem possible, a line of armed men just across the 
field; and you had been walking opposite them for 
more than a quarter mile without any more of a 
realization of their presence than that caused by the 
suck of a rifle ball. Where were they? What did 
they look like? 

At the next rifle pit, with a nod to the Captain, 1 
turned in. The soldier who sat with his gun on his 
knee, smiled in a friendly way. I said something in 
German and his comrade at the oblong porthole, re- 
laxed his vigilance long enough to look around and 
grin. Carefully I listened for bullets. On this point 
there was apparently no firing. With absurd stealth 
— I imagine they must have both grinned — I stuck 
my head up over the top of the trenches. I saw about 
a quarter of a mile away a fringe of trees with white 
and yellow houses showing through, and further for- 
ward, just off the macadam road, a house of grayish 
stone. The sky was blue and in the bright sunlight 
the furrowed rain-soaked field was a golden brown. 

136 



IN THE TRENCHES 

I could see a black wisp of smoke curling from a 
red brick chimney, but where were the French? . . . 
Something slapped against the mud in front of me, 
and a shower of dirt flew over the trench. Down I 
ducked. Yes, the French were there. 

The soldier at the porthole was talking excited 
German. " He says," smiled the man with the gun 
across the knee, speaking English now for the first 
time, " that you kept your head up too long. It's all 
right to look quickly and get down, but the other way 
they see you." 

His growing beard did not conceal his smiling 
mouth. I wondered at his easy dialect, spoken 
without the London accent noticeable in so many 
Prussian officers. I asked him where he had learned 
to speak American. He told me he had worked in 
the Bronx — which those who are not New Yorkers 
may or may not know — and that he was a joiner in 
a piano factory. Every Sunday afternoon he played 
baseball in Claremont Park; his team had won a 
Church League championship. Bullets began to 
whistle overhead. Doubtless thinking that a reck- 
less officer had exposed himself, the French were cov- 
ering the pit. "Do you hear them?" grinned the 
Bronx piano joiner, as the whistle of the bullets kept 
up. "Fine, isn't it?" 

" You like to hear bullets? " I asked. He nodded. 
Well, I suppose it's a cultivated taste, like German 
hors d'oeuvres. I began to think of him as of the 
Saxonians whom I saw drilling in the courtyard in 
Vis en Artois. Of course he liked this better than 

137 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

piecing together colorless bits of wood in a factory. 
Not a day passed, probably, but that he got his little 
thrill, and when the war was over he could go back 
to the Bronx ~ if he lived — and be a hero among his 
friends for the rest of his days. And as I wished him 
good luck and turned to overtake the others I won- 
dered if this war is going to change the workingman 
in this way; if he is going to become so accustomed 
to a spicy existence that he never tasted before, that 
he will not follow to the humdrum of shops and mills 
as inevitably as before; rather demanding something 
more? 

Beside the door to a dugout I saw on the wall a 
page torn from a French periodical U Illustration. 
It was a lay-out of actresses and bicycle riders and it 
struck you as incongruous until you remembered that 
the trench had been captured from the French. I 
saw a profusion of mottoes lettered by the soldiers 
on their writing paper — Gott mit uns. You could 
not pass a rifle pit -^ and they are about ten yards 
apart — without seeing those words of the Emperor 
that have become the slogan of the German army; 
and you thought as you saw them, not printed under 
some official orders and sent to the soldiers so that 
they would ever have them before them, but written 
by the men themselves out of the feeling in their 
hearts, you thought that it is going to be a tremendous 
job to hold at bay an army, that thinks the Divine is 
on its side. 

I noticed that the soldiers try to outdo each other 
in the individuality of their dugouts. There was one 

138 



IN THE TRENCHES 

that had a little sign over the door ^^ Gasthaus zur 
Kron '^ and the soldier inside told me that it was the 
name of the hotel he owned in his home town. I saw 
another with three inches of stove pipe protruding 
from the roof that billed itself as the Schmaltz Kuchen 
BdcTcerie, under which was modestly written in pencil 
" Here is the best kitchen in the world/' Delightful 
these signs, for presently I came upon an exceedingly 
frank one, the tenant of a dugout having stuck over 
the door, a shingle upon which was written ^^ Gasthaus 
der Wilde Wanze/^ which means " The Inn of the 
Wild Bed Bug.'' 

I went down into one of the dugouts. I saw a 
square hole in the earth where one had to move about 
stooped. A candle flickered on an empty box and in 
the corner I saw two piles of mud-caked blankets. A 
pair of wet socks hung from a string that had been 
fastened in some miraculous way from wall to wall 
and a soldier was straining his eyes in the candlelight, 
reading the tiny Bible which is part of the equipment 
of every German private. Perhaps I do the man an 
injustice but I imagined he was reading because he 
was bored; and that by the time this war is over, 
more Germans will know their Bible from cover- to 
cover because of hours in the trenches when they had 
nothing else to do. I saw no crucifix in that room 
in the ground — and I have seen crucifixes in bomb- 
proofs — but I saw another cross, the Maltese out- 
lines of the Iron Cross dug in the dirt wall, and I 
thought of it as that soldier's dream. 

At the next passage to a rifle pit, the officers stopped 

139 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMAN! 

and I saw that here were no soldiers on watch and 
that a narrow passageway opened up into the field. 

" That is the way we advance our trenches/' ex- 
plained the Captain. "At different points we dig 
out like this and then after we have gone out awhile, 
we dig sideways in both directions, parallel to this 
trench. Soon the different little trenches that are 
being dug that way, meet Then they are deepened 
and the soldiers have pits here and take the new 
position." 

It was the method, as old as fortifications that the 
Japanese gave perfected, to the military world at 
Port Arthur and that the Bulgarians copied around 

Adrianople, and it is the way by which the th 

Infantry finally closed in Arras, the way the whole 
German line, meter by meter, is moving France, creep- 
ing this time, not running wild over the country side, 
as during those wild August days, but gaining slowly 
here, losing slowly there, instead of being driven back 
across their own frontier, as the English newspapers 
promised they would be long before this writing. I 
went up into one of the little outpost trenches. The 
approach was shallow and you had to walk doubled 
over. I passed a door of solid iron that slid into a 
groove dug in the mud, and through another gate, 
this one of wood and tangled with barbed wire. 

" In case anything should happen during the night," 
offered the Captain with a smile; and then we came 
to the new trench where soldiers were digging, while 
a squad of eight stood guard with leveled rifles and a 
machine gun lest the French attack by surprise. It 

140 



/;. IN THE TRENCHES 

w^^ not yet a trench in the military sense ; only a ditch 
in which you dared not stand erect for even your chest 
would be exposed above the bags of sand that lined 
the top. Crouched beside a soldier I peered through 
an opening between the bags. I felt that the gray 
stone house that I had seen before, was approaching 
nearer. Where were the French? I stared across 
the plowed field. Finally I made out a furrow that 
was different from the others. It seemed higher and 
more gray than the color of dirt and I saw that it 
extended as far as the eye could see, and as I watched 
it I suddenly saw a speck of blue. It was the liat I 
had seen by the thousands in the prison camps. I had 
seen the French. 

The soldier beside me seemed engrossed in the gray 
stone house. He muttered something to the next man 
— there were not separate rifle pits here — just a 
line of men. I too watched the gray house. I saw 
on the roof the rack of a wireless, and in the middle of 
the wall where the garret must be, a circular open 
window looked almost as if it had been made as a 
shell. I became conscious that there was somebody 
in that room and the next moment I saw a figure 
slowly approach the big gaping window, and a head 
cautiously appeared. I had a glimpse of a pallid 
blank face and then a rifle roared in my ear, and three 
more went off in a salvo. '^ French officers in that 
room," remarked the soldier wisely. " We get them." 

As I turned to go back to the main trench, I saw 
that already in this little ditch the irrepressible Ger- 
man soldier had been at work. There in the mud wall 

141 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

was a heart, outlined with the ends of exploded cart- 
ridges, and as I looked at it, a boyish man smiled 
sheepishly and turned away. On the battleline, less 
— here in the outermost ditch — than two hundred 
meters from the French, they draw pictures and trace 
liearts, these sentimental people; and yet they have 
been accused of wantonly burning houses, these Ger- 
mans, to whom the home is the biggest thing in all 
existence. Were every American who believes those 
Belgian stories, to live with the German soldiers as 
I have, and to know them off duty, and to watch them 
in the trenches, he would be utterly at sea. The 
stories of Belgium do not agree with the men of the 
German army. 

Back in the main trench, I turned off with the 
Lieutenant, going down what seemed to be a retreat- 
ing trench until he stopped before a wooden sign that 
read Kamp Fuhrer. The sign marked his bombproof, 
and descending a flight of dirt steps, I entered his 
quarters, different naturally from the private soldiers. 
He lived in a warren of straw and mud-caked bags 
and the walls of his ten by ten room in the ground 
were covered with genuine Afghanistan rugs. The 
carved desk, strewn with personal belongings, also 
had the chateau look, although the rickety washstand 
seemed to have come from a farmhouse. There was 
even a tiny window looking out away from the French, 
a mirror, a hatrack and a stone, and when upon com- 
ing out I saw that the door to this strange abode could 
be locked and that a little weather vane fluttered 
from the roof, I gave him up. He was too wonderful. 

142 



IN THE TRENCHES 

He had been watching me with the quiet smile with 
which all these German officers regard you when they 
show you the marvels of their army front, and he 
said : " Would you like to telephone anybody in 
Berlin? I shall have my orderly get the connection.'^ 

I began to catch on and when he said that I could 
stand at the field telephone which lay in a niche in the 
trench wall, near his bombproof and get a series of 
connections that would terminate in Germany and 
that I actually could carry on a conversation from 
the firing line with somebody in the Hotel Adlon at 
Berlin — well, you come to expect anything possible 
of achievement by these people. I thanked the Lieu- 
tenant, but told him I knew of no one to telephone 
and he said with a laugh that he felt sorry for me, that 
one always knew a Charlottenburg telephone number 
in Berlin. 

To get back to our motors, we used other approach 
trenches, and we had not gone a hundred and fifty 
meters from the trenches, when Bob Dunn and I — 
we had lingered so long to talk to a German soldier 
who spoke American that our party had gone ahead — 
discovered that the water in the pits was rising above 
our knees. The only thing then that occurred to us 
when the trench ran close to a road was to climb up 
out of it. Dunn was hungry and took some bread and 
cheese from his pocket ; munching it we walked along. 
The sky was white with tiny clouds hanging over the 
trees ahead. For January it was too warm; we un- 
buttoned our coats. 

" Amazing people," Dunn was saying. I happened 

143 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

to look behind me. The gray stone house ! " Do you 
know/' I said feeling cold, " that we're exposed to 
the French trenches? " 

" What of it, they're not firing now," remarked 
Dunn, who would no more have said that two hours 
before than I would. And we walked along the 
road, eating our bread and cheese with the French to 
look at our backs if they cared to, a quarter of a mile 
away. There was no danger; the only danger was 
potential. We had let ourselves feel comfortable in 
the lulling security of the trenches, which paradoxi- 
cally kills men. ... 

You have read that trenches have changed war, 
that the life of a soldier is regarded as so precious by 
those who devise the war machines, that everything 
is done to protect him. " Digging in " and " trench- 
work," reassuring phrases for those who do not know, 
or for those who do not think. By statistics I tried 
to show how safe the trenches are. Yes, every- 
thing is done to safeguard the soldier; he is valuable 
to the State, which is not a cynicism, for feeling the 
tremendous national spirit of Germany, you come to 
think that there is only one thing worth while in these 
years, and that is the State; and you feel that such 
a thing as national pride is more worth while than 
dollar pride; which is something which would come 
shamefacedly to most Americans were they to walk 
through the German trenches from the Channel to the 
Vosges. But if trenches were devised to save the 
soldier, modern artillery and explosives were devised 
to kill him ; and the only thing that makes you won- 

144 



IN THE TRENCHES 

der about the trenches and their relative value to life, 
is how a man can go into them and be alive at the end 
of the war. At Labasse one night I talked to a cap- 
tain who told me something of these things. 

" Yesterday," he said, " the English fired a hundred 
and fifty shells over our trench. One hundred and 
forty-eight burst harmlessly. The other two dropped 
into the trench and killed fifteen men. It took one 
hundred and fifty shells to do it, but fifteen men," 
and the Captain shook his head. I asked him what 
the effects of shell fire were on the men and he told 
me : " The moral influence of shells in breaking 
courage is terrific. That's why a heavy cannonading 
always precedes the storming of a trench. Espe- 
cially is this so at night when you have to keep send- 
ing up rockets that light the ground between the 
trenches so the enemy cannot creep up. You see, 
during the day, the soldiers sight their rifles on dif- 
ferent points and at night they simply sweep those 
points with fire. We only use machine guns to repeal 
air attack, but further down the line where the 
French are, officers have told me that the French will 
waste ammunition firing a machine gun for hours, 
apparently satisfied if they kill only one man." 

And in conversations that I had with officers at the 
different brigade and corps headquarters where I 
dined while in the West, and from things I heard in 
Berlin, I formed an opinion about the trenches. 
They are tremendously important to Germany. I 
would go so far as to say that everything depends 
upon that three hundred mile ditch in the West. If 

145 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

the Germans hold it, it means this : the war is going 
to end with Germany in possession of Belgium and a 
big section of industrial France; and somebody has 
to pay Germany's bill for this war; and German 
troops may not leave captured soil until the bill is 
paid; whereupon billions of dollars depend on a six- 
foot hole in the ground that twists and burrows 
across Europe. . , . 

I had seen the trenches by day; later I saw them 
by night. A tedious, slipping walk through half a 
mile of muddy, unroofed tunnels and I was in the 
front German line near Labasse. 

When I had accustomed myself to the steady 
cracking of rifles in the firing pits which I could not 
see, but which I knew must be close by; when I had 
nervously counted the bursting of twenty shells, all in 
an appalling few minutes, yet had heard no plop of 
fragments burying themselves into the mud above, I 
began to be able to look about me. By turning my 
indispensable electric torch this way and that, I could 
see in the rear wall of the trench a series of caves 
dug in the earth, their entrances so low that a man 
would have to enter them on hands and knees, and 
in some I saw the yellowish gutter of candles and 
others were pitch dark. At Unter Officer Ochsler's 
suggestion I went down into one of the caves. 

" Later," he said, " you won't want to be moving 
around much. It'll get hotter then and you'll want 
to remain in one place where you're sure the shelter 
is good." 

From one of the candle-lighted dugouts, I heard 

146 



IN THE TRENCHES 

part singing, a lively air, doubtless from some Ger- 
man operetta, and above us shells whined and burst 
roaring in the fields. It was while we were walking 
thus, peering to right and left into the life of the 
catacombs of mud, that a stentorian cry behind us 
seemed to spin the Lieutenant round on his heels and 
I followed him thumping heavily back down the slip- 
pery pit. "It's an attack,'' he shouted over his 
shoulder. " Get into one of the dugouts and stay 
there. And, if they get us, wave your passport if 
they find you, and yell you're an American." 

Indicating one of the little passages towards the 
firing pits, he gave me a shove and spattered away 
to take command. Down on all fours I went. I 
wondered if the two soldiers in the pit saw me. Ap- 
parently not. Their shoulders were hunched to their 
guns. I hesitated. Of course the dugout would be 
the safest place, but shells had been flying over the 
trench for an hour now and nothing had happened; 
and their shriek and heavy boom no longer seemed 
so terrifying. But then the Lieutenant had strongly 
hinted about my being in the way. He had told me 
to get into that dugout and remain there. Was I not 
really under his orders? Strange things to be rea- 
soning out with yourself, points of military etiquette, 
with the skies raining death and the whole line of 
the trenches blazing with a red, repelling flame. But 
war is strange, and now I wonder if in the firing line, 
cowardice and bravery do really exist; if it is not 
rather one man's nervous system responding to reck- 
less hysteria quicker than another's? 

147 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

You forgot the Lieutenant's request; you forgot 
that perhaps you owed it to some one to remain where 
it was safe ~ and dull. You forgot that these were 
not American soldiers leveling their guns not a stride 
from you, and that they were Englishmen who were 
pouring up over the trenches across that muddy field 
and storming towards you ; you never thought of na- 
tionality, that was a creation of man's. You thought 
of nothing ; you only felt things. You felt something 
chaotic going on, an inchoate impulse possessed you. 
It was to fire a gun. If only there was something to 
shoot, something to throw you into the surge of this 
fight so you could be thrilled the more. The men in 
front of you were fighting away ; but it was not your 
fight. 

And then came the quick banging beat of the ma- 
chine guns and you ran to where they were, your 
pulse beating with them. As you ran, stumbling 
down the slippery trench, there seemed to jump out 
of the ground a soldier with black belts of cartridges 
slung over his shoulder. Then another darted up 
from another pit and you knew they were bringing 
ammunition for the gun. In an ecstasy you followed 
them. At the second little passageway they turned 
and you turned too and found yourself crouching be- 
hind an armored wall of mud, above which the ma- 
chine gun lay between heavy bags, and you saw a 
man's elbow jerking round in a circle and you knew 
he was firing the gun. If only your arm could move 
like that! 

And above even that incessant hellish clamor you 

148 



IN THE TRENCHES 

heard the crackling report of rifles, one report seeming 
to run upon the other, as though trays of dishes were 
constantly being dropped downstairs, and then the 
heavy booming of shells would deafen all, to the fierce 
spurting of shrapnel and the slapping impact of 
fragments of grenaten in the mud. Then a swift 
rush of air, as of a mighty exhalation, and rockets 
from our trenches began to swish, one after the other, 
in short flaming arcs that terminated in a burst of 
greenish light, turning the night into a mad radiance 
so that we might better see to kill. I crowded for- 
ward, wanting to peer through a slit between the bags, 
but a soldier pushed me back. I was in the way. 
I cannot convey how that makes you feel, a realiza- 
tion that you are indeed in the way with these men 
fighting for their lives and you just there watching 
them. 

I ran from the machine gun, ducking in at the first 
pit I came to, and here I saw men who without a 
word, their movements as regular as machines, were 
loading, firing . . . loading, firing. They were 
shorter than I, and by raising a trifle on my toes, I 
could squint along their gun barrels and see the 
patch of the open field that their loop hole framed. 
I saw a confusion of color — the green, unearthly 
haze of the rockets; a wavering red hue of fire that 
had a way of rushing at you, vanishing and then ap- 
pearing further back, rushing at you again; and I 
saw a patch of mud, glistening like mottled tarnished 
silver in the rain, and once when a whitish rocket 
burst, the air seemed to be sparkling with myriad 

149 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

drops of silver and diamonds. And the rain poured 
down; and the guns shook the sky; and the rifles 
rattled on. 

I began to notice then, bj craning my head from 
left to right, that the red wavering lines of fire, which 
had a way of rushing at you and vanishing to appear 
again further back, was slower now in appearing 
after it lost itself somewhere in the mud, and then 
it became even slower in showing itself and finally 
when it came, you saw that it had disintegrated into 
segments, that it was no longer a steady oncoming 
line, rather a slowly squirming thing like the curling 
parts of some monstrous fiery worm that had been 
chopped to bits and was squirming its life away out 
there on the mud. And it dawned upon you in hor- 
ror that the fiery red lines had been lines of men, 
shooting as they had come; and that, when one line 
had been mowed down, another had rushed up from 
behind, so on almost endlessly it had seemed until 
they came broken and squirmed like the others had 
done, into the mud, and came no more. And the 
spell that you had been held in was broken ; and you 
remembered that there was a God, and you thanked 
Him that your hands had found nothing with which 
to kill. . . . 

And coming across that stretch of mud — only one 
hundred and fifty meters were their trenches — 
broke forth the rattle of the English machine guns 
and the fever of it over, you could reason out what 
that meant. The English attack had failed and now 
they were sweeping the field with machine gun fire 

150 



IN THE TRENCHES 

so that the Germans could not form and storm in 
turn. Their shells, too, no longer exploded behind 
our trenches, but in front, and you knew that the 
English had telephoned back to their artillery to 
shorten the range about fifty meters, making that 
field a muddy Golgotha in which nothing could live 
and upon which their own wounded must be being 
slain by the score. 

We had almost ceased firing. In the pits I heard 
the straggling shots that mean " at will," but our ma- 
chine guns were silent. The rockets still swished 
upward, making their parabola of sparks and keep- 
ing the night hideous with their bursting green. The 
Lieutenant was running down the trench towards me. 
" You're not hurt?" he asked. I told him no, and 
he seemed immeasurably relieved. What a futile 
outsider you felt! 

" I think our losses were, by comparison, slight," 
he said, leading the way towards the passage that 
turned back into his bombproof. " I shall have an 
exact report on them in a few minutes." From out 
of the pits, as we passed, I heard a groan. Thinking 
the man might be alone, I paused and turned on my 
lamp. Its white light found a circle of brown mud 
and then moving down, it shone upon the grotesquely 
hunched up form of a man in soiled gray green, and 
w^avering across the pit it rested then upon a pair 
of boots, their soles turned towards me. 

" Probably shrapnel,'' remarked the Lieutenant, as 
he looked over my shoulder. " Both dead." 

You caught a professional lack of emotion in his 

151 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

voice and you experienced a moment's unpleasant- 
ness before you realized that a kind providence 
makes the spectacle of death seem as commonplace to 
the soldier as it does to the surgeon; otherwise he 
should go mad. There was a business-like air about 
the Lieutenant now, rather different, you thought, 
from that rush through the mud when first the alarm 
sounded. By the way, how long ago was that; not 
more than twenty minutes? But when you looked 
at your watch, the hands shaped more. Two hours ! 

I followed the Lieutenant into his bombproof. 

" We're safe here," he said in a dutiful way, " un- 
less a shell should strike the roof. But I think they'll 
soon cease their artillery fire altogether." 

He twirled the spark wheel of one of those patent 
lighters that the German soldiers carry and the glow- 
ing coal at the end of the chemically treated cord be- 
gan to seek the wick of a candle. I flashed on my 
lamp to help him, and in a moment the little dirt 
walled room was faintly luminous with yellow light. 
It was possible to stand without bumping your head 
against the logged roof, and while he picked up the 
field telephone, whose slender tendrils crept up 
through the roof like a vine, I glanced around me. 
Over there in the corner one saw a red rubber wash 
basin, evidently folding, for it was creased in many 
places ; it rested upon an empty ammunition box, and 
above it a tiny mirror gave out the reflection of the 
candle. I heard him call for regimental headquar- 
ters and then in a very calm voice he proceeded to 
give the details of the engagement insofar as he had 

152 



IN THE TRENCHES 

been able to collect them in such a brief time. He 
begged me to excuse him while he wrote out a re- 
port. 

" This must be delivered at once by a soldier to 
my Colonel/' he explained. " I shall leave blanks for 
the number of our killed and wounded and telephone 
it to headquarters to be filled in as soon as the under 
officer brings me the figures." 

I told him that I would go out and take a look 
around while he was writing his report. " I'll only 
be a minute," he begged. 

" I'll be careful," I replied, and he smiled in a way 
that showed he understood. I then went down the line 
of the trench for perhaps fifty meters, stopping here 
and there to go into the firing pits, where by now most 
of the rifles were silent, one man in each pit watch- 
ing through the oblong hole between the sand bags, 
lest the enemy creep up, for their cannonading had 
ceased and shells no longer fell upon that narrow 
zone between the trenches. They appeared to take 
turns watching, the two men in each pit, the one on 
relief sitting on the ground, his back against the dirt 
wall, as though fatigued. 

It was in one of these pits that I stuck up my head 
— for the enemy's bullets no longer whizzed by — 
and looked out upon the little battle field. The rain 
had ceased ; the stars were coming out. It was quiet 
out there now, but in the distance, north and south, 
you heard muffled uproars as though what had begun 
and ended here was happening there now. It was 
quiet out there, too quiet, not even the wounded 

153 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

groaned; there were no wounded; the artillery had 
turned them into dead. In the feeble starlight noth- 
ing was visible, only vague outlines as of a rise of 
ground, just at a distance, you imagined, for the Eng- 
lish trenches to crest; only that and close by the short, 
shadowy posts across which the German barbed en- 
tanglements were strung. Slowly the silence grew 
upon you. 

And then I heard the hiss of a rocket. I watched 
its arc of yellow sparks. I watched its burst, and in 
its light I saw that which I pray my eyes may never 
behold again. I saw in that eerie radiance the glis- 
tening, puddled field and across it, on the upward 
sloping ground what you might have thought were in- 
numerable graves, but which you knew to be the 
bodies of men, fallen as they had come at the charge ; 
in twos — threes — I counted ten in a perfect row ; 
and behind them were more of these lumps which 
seemed to be of the earth, for they were the color of 
that blackish field; and there the mounds seemed 
higher, as though a pile of them lay there; and you 
heard the hissing rockets, and their greenish fires 
seemed to be now of that green which sometimes burns 
on an altar's rail. And then the rockets stopped, and 
the field of the dead was shut from your eyes. . . . 
If only a sound would come from out there. ... 

I found the Lieutenant in his bombproof. 

" I have been waiting for you,'' he called in a cheery 
way, and he reached down under the empty cartridge 
box. " Cognac," he exclaimed, producing a flask. 
" It will taste good now.'' 

154 



IN THE TRENCHES 

" I suppose," I nodded. 

I admired his unshaking hand as he poured out the 
liquid. " There's only one glass/' he smiled. " Go 
ahead, I insist." 

I gulped down the stuff and hoped he had not no- 
ticed my manner. I watched him pour out his own 
drink, holding it like the connoisseur you felt him to 
be, before the candle flame. He must have been ad- 
miring the amber color when footfalls came from 
without. The under-officer saluted and handed him 
a bit of paper. Putting down the cognac and return- 
ing the salute, the Lieutenant picked up the tele- 
phone. I heard him call regimental headquarters, 
and then reading from the paper, he reported in Ger- 
man : " Fifteen dead — thirty-eight wounded.'' And 
laying aside the 'phone he picked up his cognac, 
slowly sipping it down. . . . 

I had seen the men in the trenches and it was at 
Commines that I saw them out. With a tall young 
Prussian officer, who told me in entire sincerity that 
before this war was done Germany was going to in- 
vade England and that the plans had all been per- 
fiected, but what they were he naturally could not 
say — I walked along the cobbled street of the old 
French town until I came to a gray stone factory. 
Through the paling of a picket fence I saw soldiers 
moving about in the yard, and going in we walked 
along a narrow cobbled driveway between dingy 
workshops until the officer opened a door, and we 
went into what had been a storeroom. I saw rows 
of pens, each as wide as a cot and filled with straw, 

155 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

and in the straw lay men. You thought of them as 
being too exhausted upon coming back from the 
trenches to take off their uniforms and wash before 
lying down. I saw their cartridge belts, knapsacks 
and guns strewn in the straw beside them, and I be- 
came conscious of a faint sickening odor that minute 
by minute became stronger in that stuffy room, the 
stench of men who had not been able to as much as 
unloosen their clothing for days at a time. 

As I walked between the pens I saw further on that 
gome of the men were awake. I saw their faces ; the 
others seemed all to sleep with their faces buried in 
the straw; and they were wild, unshaven faces, yel- 
lowish with mud, and bleary with sleepless eyes that 
somehow could not sleep now. There was one munch- 
ing on a big chunk of black bread, and another who 
had been leaning on his elbow, writing a letter, 
jumped up as I passed. 

" You^re an American, aren't you? " he called after 
me. 

I saw from the blue and white button on his cap 
that he belonged to one of the Bavarian regiments. 

" I lived in the United States,'' he told me, " until 
the war came. Then I joined my regiment. I was 
the cashier of a bank in Juarez, and I lived across the 
river. I used to make my money in Mexico and live 
in America." 

He went on telling me of his experiences and oblig- 
ingly answering certain questions that must have 
sounded foolish to him. 

"We work here in the army," he said, "seven day 

156 



IN THE TRENCHES 

shifts. We're in the trenches forty-eight hours and 
then out for twenty-four hours' rest; in again for 
twenty-four and then out for three days." 

I asked him what the men did during the last three 
days and he told me. 

" To-day, for instance, we get paid. Then we wash 
up and go out and buy cigars and cheese and things, 
though I'm afraid some of the boys will be laid up this 
time with the typhoid vaccine. We're fresh troops, 
you know, and haven't had it yet. I suppose when 
spring comes on, they'll have us working as farmers 
when we're not on duty." 

I asked him what he meant, and he told me that 
all the captured farmland of Belgium and France 
that could be planted during the fall had been sown 
by German soldiers, and that when the crops were 
ready that the soldiers would harvest them. And 
again the marvelous details of this German machine 
amazed me. 

I said good-by to the Bavarian who had made his 
money in Mexico, spent it in America, and did his 
fighting with Germany in France, and went down the 
damp cobbled alley where you thought the wagons 
used to drive into these mills with their supplies ; the 
officer told me a thousand soldiers rested, bathed and 
were fed every day in the factory. We saw the room 
where they bathed, one tub running the entire length 
of the machine room — overhead the motionless belt 
wheels looked self-conscious — this tub for the legs, 
another for the feet, while in the middle of the stone 
floor the army barbers, daubed white with lather, 

157 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

were shaving the soldiers and chipping their hair to 
the scalp. 

" These are three companies of the — th Bavarian 
Infantry who have the room for this hour. They 
must be bathed and shaved within that time." 

Outside I saw three soldiers picking mud off their 
uniforms; and when we returned to the street, wait- 
ing for our car, three of them passed with shiny 
shaven faces and puffing on long cigars. We saw 
three girls and the soldiers smiled. It was their day 
off. . . . 

When I think of the trenches again I think of the 
bombproof, near Labasse. The English have at- 
tacked, to be beaten back. The young German officer 
has just telephoned his report to his Colonel, and is 
pouring himself a second glass of cognac. They are 
the same at night as they are in the day, these 
trenches; they have the sam^ bored men lounging in 
the dugouts, waiting for an attack; the same tensely 
watchful men in the rifle pits, scanning the enemy's 
line. I heard a harmonica. The dead still lay where 
they fell, the wounded were getting first aid, and you 
could hear the whining harmonica above the scatter- 
ing spatter of the shrapnel. Yes, in the trenches it 
was the same ; they had settled down once more into 
the lulling secure feeling of the protection of a dirt 
wall, six feet high, which paradoxically ends by kill- 
ing them. Only the night was different. 

Hideous night, pierced with flame, serried with a 
rocket's gleaming train, weird with bursting bombs 

158 



IN THE TRENCHES 

that light the glistening fields a grayish green ; awful 
night, shaking to the booming of heavy guns, blotched 
with the red of splitting shells, quivering insanely to 
a machine gun's steady beat ; night of death, with the 
wounded turning white, waiting for the hours just 
before the dawn when the firing stops and their com- 
rades may be spared to carry them back ; with the field 
of the soaked dead, a nightmare of lumpy things, seen 
hellishly in the rocket's glow. 

But in the trenches — all along the big ditch from 
the dunes of Flanders to the foothills of the Vosges 
— it is the same night and day ; and bullets are whis- 
tling and harmonicas are playing. I heard them 
both at Arras and Labasse. 



159 



VIII 

CAPTURED BELGIUM AND ITS GOVERNOR 

GENERAL 

1 HE Governor General will receive you at four/^ 
said Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann, explaining things; 
" I shall accompany you." 

As we had just come up from the front around Lille, 
the only clothes we had were those on our backs ; and 
to Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann's officer's boots and my 
puttees, the mud of the trenches still clung in yel- 
low cakes. Hardly the most proper clothes in which 
to meet King Albert's successor; but in field gray 
we had to go. Through the busy streets, up the 
long hill, to the Government buildings, we skirted the 
edge of that rectangle of stone buildings where Bel- 
gian officials used to conduct Belgian affairs. At the 
corner we turned, passing up the Rue de la Loi, where 
King Albert's palace frowns down upon two black 
and white striped Prussian sentry boxes, and then en- 
tered the Belgian War Ministry building. A German 
private ushered us up a flight of marble stairs to an 
antechamber, where we waited, while an adjutant dis- 
appeared through a pretentious white double door, to 
tell His Excellency that we had come. I noticed two 
marble busts in that antechamber, white busts on ped- 

160 



CAPTURED BELGIUM 

estals in opposite corners — the King and Queen of 
Belgium, and I wondered if they ever visited this city 
again, would it be an official visit, the guests of an- 
other nation, or a home-coming. 

The Governor General received me in a dainty, 
Louis Quinze room, done in rose and French gray, 
and filled incongruously with delicate chairs and 
heavy brocaded curtains, a background which you felt 
precisely suited His Excellency. In the English 
newspapers, which by the way, the Germans do not 
childishly bar from the Berlin cafes, I had read of ^ 
His Excellency as the " Iron Fist,'' or the " Heavy 
Heel," and I rather expected to see a heavy, domi- 
neering man. Instead, a slender, stealthy man in the 
uniform of a general, rose from behind a tapestry- 
topped table, revealing as he did, a slight stoop in his 
back, and held out a long-fingered hand. As I looked 
at Governor General von Bissing I saw that he wore 
the second class of the Iron Cross and no other deco- 
rations; at the same time I imagined he had been 
awarded about ten orders which he could have strung 
across his narrow chest. His black, glistening, al- 
most artificial-looking hair, was brushed back tight 
over his head, and when I noticed his eyes, I saw that 
they were of bluish gray, heavy and unrelenting, 
pouched and lined, glowing in a way that either made 
you want to turn away, or else stare, fascinated by 
their powers. He struck me as being rather longer 
headed than most Germans, and his straggly grayish 
mustache only half hid the thin, straight, ruthless 
lines of his mouth; but when you tried to study his 

161 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

face, you could discern only two things, features thin, 
but intensely strong, pierced with two points of fire, 
sunken, glowering eyes. And I knew then what they 
meant by the Iron Fist. 

General von Bissing spoke no English. Somehow 
I imagined him to be one of those old patriots who 
would never learn the language simply because it was 
English. Through Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann I 
asked the Governor General what Germany was doing 
towards the reconstruction of Belgium. I asked 
Herrmann to explain to him — for I dreaded attempt- 
ing my ungrammatical German — that America, when 
I had left it, was under the impression that Belgium 
was a land utterly laid waste by the German armies ; 
in America the common belief was that the German 
military Government meant tyranny; what was Ger- 
many doing for Belgium? 

"I think,'' replied Governor General von Bissing, 
" that we are doing everything that can be done under 
the circumstances. Those farmlands which Lieuten- 
ant Herrmann tells me you saw, coming up from 
Lille to Brussels, were planted by German soldiers 
and in the spring they will be harvested by our sol- 
diers. Belgium has not been devastated, and its con- 
dition has been grievously misstated, as you have 
seen. You must remember that the armies have 
passed back and forth across it — German, Belgian, 
English, and French, but I think you have seen that 
only in the paths of these armies has the countryside 
suffered. Where engagements were not fought or 
shots fired, Belgium is as it was. There has been no 

162 



CAPTURED BELGIUM 

f^^stematic devastation for the purpose of intimidat- 
ing the people. You will learn this if you go all over 
Belgium. As for the cities, we are doing the best 
we can to encourage business. Of course, with things 
the way they are now, it is difficult. I can only ask 
you to go down one of the principal business streets 
here, the Rue de la Neuve for instance, and price the 
articles that you find in the shops, and compare them 
with the Berlin prices. The merchants of Brussels 
are not having to sacrifice their stock by cutting 
prices, and equally important, there are people buy- 
ing. I can unhesitatingly say that things are pro- 
gressing favorably in Belgium." 

And although I felt General von Bissing could be 
a hard master, he impressed me like a good many hard 
masters, as being thoroughly sincere. Thinking of 
Schleswig, I asked him if he thought that Belgium 
could ever be Germanized. Suppose after the peace 
treaty was signed that Germany decided to keep Bel- 
gium, would the Empire ever be able to assimilate the 
new people? Before replying. General von Bissing 
appeared to be thinking hard; he dropped his eyes 
and hesitated long, finally saying : " I do not think 
that it is the time for me to discuss this point." 

The conversation turned upon Belgian and English 
relations before this war. The Governor General 
mentioned the documentary evidence found in the 
archives in Brussels, and proving an understanding 
between these countries against Germany. He talked 
briefly about the point that the subjects of King Al- 
bert had been betrayed into the hands of English 

163 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

financiers, and then laconically said : " The people 
of Belgium are politically undisciplined children. 
You may know of the high percentage of criminality 
in Belgium. You may have heard that the slums of 
Antwerp are considered the worst in the world. Ap- 
parently education was never designed in Belgium for 
the mass of the people. They knew nothing, they 
could conjecture nothing, about what was going on 
between their rulers and the rulers of other countries. 
Even now they believe that relief is at any moment at 
hand. They think the English will deliver them,'' 
and the Governor General sneered. " They are the 
victims of subtle propaganda that generally takes the 
form of articles in French and neutral newspapers," 
and General von Bissing looked me straight in the 
eyes, as though to emphasize that by neutral, he meant 
the newspapers of the United States. 

" I can understand the French doing this," he said, 
" because they always use the Belgians, and do not 
care what happens to them. It is beyond my com- 
prehension, though, how the Government of any neu- 
tral country permits the publication of newspaper 
articles that can have but one effect, and that is to en- 
courage revolt in a captured people. A country likes 
to call itself humanitarian, and yet it persists in al- 
lowing the publication of articles that only excite an 
ignorant, undisciplined people and lead them to acts 
of violence that must be wiped out by force," and the 
Governor General's mouth closed with a click. 

" Do you know that the people of Brussels, when- 
ever a strong wind carries the booming of heavy guns 

164 



CAPTURED BELGIUM 

miles in from the front, think that French and Eng- 
lish are going to recapture the city. Any day that 
we can hear the guns faintly, we know that there is 
an undercurrent of nervous expectancy running 
through the whole city. It goes down alleys, and ave- 
nues, and fills the cafes. You can see Belgians stand- 
ing together whispering. Twice they actually set the 
date when King Albert would return. 

" This excitement and unrest, and the feeling of the 
English coming in, is fostered and encouraged by the 
articles in French and neutral newspapers that are 
smuggled in. I do not anticipate any uprising among 
the Belgians, although the thoughtless among them 
have encouraged it. An uprising is a topic of worry 
in our councils. It could do us no harm. We could 
crush it out like that," and Von Bissing snapped his 
thin fingers, " but if only for the sake of these misled 
and betrayed people, all seditious influences should 
cease." 

I asked the Governor General about the attitude of 
officials of the Belgian Government, who were being 
used by the Germans in directing affairs. 

" My predecessor, General von der Gotz," he re- 
plied, " informed me that the municipal officials in 
Brussels and most Belgian cities, showed a good co- 
operative spirit from the start. The higher officials 
were divided, some refusing flatly to deal with the 
German administration. I do not blame these men, 
especially the railway officials, for I can see their view- 
point. In these days, railway roads and troop trains 
were inseparable, and if those Belgian railway offi- 

165 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

cials had helped us, they would have committed trea- 
son against their country. There was no need, 
though, for the Post Office officials to hold out, and 
only lately they have come around. Realizing, how- 
ever, that without their department, the country 
would be in chaos, the officials of the Department of 
Justice immediately cooperated with us. To-day the 
Belgian civil courts try all ordinary misdemeanors 
and felonies. Belgium penal law still exists and is 
administered by Belgians. However, all other cases 
are tried by a military tribunal, the Feld Gericht/^ 

I asked Excellence von Bissing if there was much 
need for this military tribunal. 

" We have a few serious cases," he said ; " occasion- 
ally there is a little sedition, but for the most part it 
is only needle pricks. They are quiet now. They 
know why," and slowly shaking his head, Yon Bis- 
sing, who is known as the sternest disciplinarian in 
the entire German army, smiled. 

And then I urged the most important question — 
Belgian neutrality. 

" It would have been a very grave mistake," said 
Von Bissing, slowly, " not to have invaded Belgium. 
It would have been an unforgivable military blunder. 
I justified the invading of Belgium on absolutely mili- 
tary grounds. What other grounds are there worth 
while talking about when a nation is in a war for its 
existence? If we had not sent our troops into Bel- 
gium the English would have landed their entire ex- 
peditionary army at Antwerp, and cut our line of 

166 



CAPTURED BELGIUM 

communication. How do I know that? Simply be- 
cause England would have been guilty of the grossest 
blunder if she had not done that, and the man who is 
in charge of England's army has never been known as 
a blunderer. It was the only way. Subsequent 
events, the finding of diplomatic documents, have 
proven the English agreements with Belgium. In the 
captured fortresses at Namur, Ltittich (Liege), and 
Antwerp, we found stores of French guns and ammu- 
nition. Germany would have been much worse off 
than she is to-day if she had not gone through Bel- 
gium. A great state like Germany could not permit 
holding back at such a time in its history." 

This led us into talking about the situation in 
America. We talked about the burning of Louvain, 
which I later saw and found to be comparatively lit- 
tle damaged, roughly, but one-twelfth was destroyed, 
and I saw the paintings that German officers risked 
their lives in fire to save. We talked about Louvain 
and then about General Sherman's march from At- 
lanta to the sea, when a whole state was burned and 
laid waste. 

" The truth will come out," said Von Bissing slowly. 
" Your country is renowned for fair play. You will 
be fair to Germany, I know. Your American Belief 
Commission is doing excellent work. It is in the 
highest degree necessary. At first the German 
army had to use the food they could get by foraging in 
Belgium, for the country does not begin to produce 
the food it needs for its own consumption, and there 

167 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

were no great reserves that our troops could use. But 
the German army is not using any of Belgian food 
now." 

I asked the Governor General if the Germans had 
not been very glad that America was sending over 
food. I told him that when I left New York, the 
number of unemployed there was huge — largest, so 
Mayor Mitchell had said, in the city's history — and 
that some Americans were so unsentimental as to 
think that this food for Belgium might better be dis- 
tributed in their own country. This seemed to dis- 
turb General von Bissing. 

" It is most important," he repeated, " that Amer- 
ica regularly sends provisions to Belgium. Your 
country should feel very proud of the good it has done 
here." Somehow I had the idea that His Excellency 
was indulging in quiet amusement at my expense. 
He impressed me as being far too clever to make such 
a statement in entire sincerity. " I welcome the 
American Belief Committee," he said. "We are 
working in perfect harmony. Despite reports to 
the contrary, we never have had any misunderstand- 
ing. Through the American Press, please thank your 
people for their kindness to Belgium." 

General von Bissing held out his hand; the inter- 
view was over. In the next room I saw on a little 
table a pot of tea and a plate of little cakes. I won- 
dered if the Governor General really ate cakes. I 
bowed my way out of the rose and French gray room 
and walked with Ober-Lieutenant Herrmann down the 
marble stairs. I was thinking of a story that I had 

168 



CAPTURED BELGIUM 

heard of His Excellency. A few years ago he was 
having great difficulty in keeping orderlies; they all 
found him too strict. Finally he obtained a new or- 
derly, a grim looking individual. 

" What were you before you entered the army? " 
Von Bissing asked him. 

"A lion tamer," replied the orderly. 

" Good," exclaimed Von Bissing, " you stay." 

Try to think of a slender, slightly stooped military 
man, perhaps a trifle foppish, with his sleek, bril- 
liantined hair, sitting in a delicate gold and tapestried 
chair, and directing the affairs of a captured nation. 
His face is sallow, and his sunken eyes always seemed 
to smolder, and his mouth is so thin and straight, as 
almost to be cruel, but you feel that he is absolutely 
fair, and it is hard to think of him as breaking his 
word. I cannot imagine Governor General von Bis- 
sing doing that. I think he is ruthlessly honest, ruth- 
lessly just, hard, a rigid disciplinarian, and scrupu- 
lously fair, and if reprisals are necessary no senti- 
mentality will stay his hand. " They are only needle 
pricks," he says of seditious Belgians, — " they know 
why." The ideal man for a military government, his 
is an Iron Fist ; but if the fist were of softer stuff, all 
Belgium would be in chaos. 



169 



IX 

PEISONEKS OF WAR 

1 ROMPTLY at two o'clock the gray army automo- 
bile emblazoned with. Prussian eagles in black, left 
Wilhelmstrasse. Half an hour's run — and the 
drivers of those army motor cars know not a speed 
law — and we were at garrison headquarters on 
Doeberitz Road. One saw a fence of white palings, 
a lawn surprisingly green for winter, symmet- 
rically laid out among gray gravel walks that lead up 
to a square business-like house of brown stucco, over 
the door of which was printed ^^ Kaiser Wilhelm 
Soldatenheiniy 1914/' Off to the right loomed a long 
weather-beaten line of huge tents, one of which was 
open, showing the tail of a Taube monoplane. Across 
the road behind us, unpainted barrack sheds and sol- 
diers showed through a grove of pine trees, and then 
while Dr. Roediger of the Foreign Office, my escort, 
went to find Major General von Loebell, commanding 
the entire Doeberitz camp and garrison, I heard some- 
thing that reminded me of the riveting machines on 
the skyscrapers in New York. Imagine your state of 
mind with twenty riveting machines, all making their 
infernal clatter at the same time, only each capable 
of double the usual noise. That is the sound that 
suddenly broke in upon us at Doeberitz Road, and 

170 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

off in the fields we saw battery after battery of ma- 
chine gun men, learning their deadly trade. While 
we waited Dr. Koediger's return, more guns broke 
loose, and by the time the General came, he could 
scarcely make himself heard. He began by explain- 
ing from his military point of view the Doeberitz 
camp. 

"We have seventeen thousand prisoners here," he 
said, " and there are more coming every day. The 
war office thinks it fine to take so many Eussian pris- 
oners. Out here we don't like it," he smiled. " Thev 
are coming too fast for us. Every day we are build- 
ing more houses for them, but each house costs |2500. 
Already we have spent nearly |800,000 in this one 
camp on sleeping quarters alone, and we've got 
twenty other prison camps in Germany, and nearly 
three quarters of a million prisoners. Here at Doe- 
beritz we are building a bathing place for the pris- 
oners that is costing |17,500, and when you figure 
up what it costs to feed those fellows, the expense 
of this camp runs up into the millions." 

Perhaps to put us in the proper mental state be- 
fore visiting the prison camp proper. Major General 
von Loebell went on to say something about the pris- 
oners. 

" The French and Russians," he explained, " are 
easy to handle. They don't mind working. In fact, 
they are always asking for something to do. And 
remember that whenever a prisoner does any munici- 
pal work, labor on the roads, for instance, he is paid 
for it, thirty or Mtj pfennigs a day, and he can use 

171 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

the money to buy tobacco." And for an instant the 
General grew wrathy. " In France and England, 
though, they don't pay German prisoners a cent, no 
matter what work they do. Our English prisoners, 
though " — and the General dolorously shook his head 
— " Oh, they are more difficult. Always they have a 
grievance. The first thing they asked for was a place 
to wash. We were glad to give it to them," and the 
General grinned. " The Eussians never bother you 
for a luxury like that. Then we gave the English 
coffee in the morning, and they protested again ; they 
wanted tea. Gott, I was glad enough to give them 
tea; it is cheaper. But when we want them to work, 
they sulk. Really, the Frenchmen work for us as if 
they enjoy it. So do the Russians. On the whole, 
though, we don't have much trouble here at Doeber- 
itz." Pausing, he added : " I shall now put you in 
charge of Lieutenant Colonel Albert!, who will show 
you around the camp." And with the usual German 
military bow, the General bade us adieu. With the 
Lieutenant Colonel, a most accommodating man, we 
proceeded by motor down the Doeberitz Road. Near 
the prison sheds my cigarette burned down, and I 
opened the limousine window to throw out the stump. 
Four Russians, guarded by a soldier, were passing, 
and suddenly I heard an excited clamor. There, on 
their hands and knees, punching and cursing each 
other, while the soldier prodded them with his bay- 
onet, the Russians fought for that inch of tobacco, 
oblivious to everything, bayonet and all, until it was 
won. 

172 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

Leaving them, we came to a gate in the barbed wire 
fences, and passed on foot through a double line of 
sentries into the main street of the prison camp. One 
saw on either side rows of long, newly erected, un- 
painted sheds, separated by side streets of muddy 
ground and fenced off from the main camp street by 
more barbed wire. One's first impression was that 
prisoners of war are among the piteous objects on 
the face of the earth. You see swarms of shuflling 
men who before the fortunes of war went against 
them must have looked smart and soldierly. Now 
in their uniforms they seemed self-conscious and ab- 
surd, sheepish almost because they had to wear regi- 
mentals in the presence of the enemy. What must 
have been a trim-looking British marine caught my 
eye. His olive drab was tattered and stained; he 
must have lost his cap or sold it to buy tobacco. 
What he wore was a battered derby, picked up Heav- 
en knows where! It was characteristic, I after- 
wards learned, of the entire camp. 

As we walked up the main street, groups of pris- 
oners ran down the side streets and gathering by the 
barbed wire fences, stared curiously. We saw a 
whole battalion of English jackies, more marines, 
and then swarms of Russians, heavy and stupid look- 
ing. Only one enclosure, the Colonel explained, was 
filled with Frenchmen. 

The first place that Lieutenant Colonel Alberti put 
at our disposal was the camp kitchen. We entered 
one of the long sheds and came into a steaming room, 
where instantly the chief cook and his assistants stood 

173 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

at attention. The chief cook, following the fashion 
of his kind, was dressed in white from head to foot, 
but his assistants wore the field uniforms of Kus- 
sia, smeared with grease. The eye took in a cement 
floor that supported three enormous caldrons, each 
one big enough for three men to hide in and brimming 
with a white-looking mixture. 

" They are getting supper ready," explained the 
Lieutenant Colonel, and he went on to say how the 
prisoners were fed. " That is a stew made of cab- 
bage and meat; you can see the pieces of meat in it. 
At four o'clock in the afternoon, and at six-thirty in 
the morning, the prisoners are given a soup similar 
to this. Then in the middle of the day they get 
sausage and bread. Of course we change the diet; 
very often they have coffee in the morning, also." 

It did not sound very promising; nor did the stuff 
in the caldrons look inviting. I asked the Lieutenant 
Colonel if I might taste some of the stew^ To my 
surprise he was perfectly willing; and to my further 
surprise I found it to be excellent. Far from being 
tasteless, it was evidently prepared by a good chef, and 
there were sufficient pieces of meat to provide ample 
nourishment for a man partaking of that dish twice 
a day; certainly he would not be underfed, and in a 
prison camp one does not expect delicacies. 

As we left the cookroom, the Lieutenant Colonel 
told us that the eight thousand five hundred men in 
this particular section of the camp were fed in fifty 
minutes, a statistic suggestive of German efiiciency. 
From the kitchen we visited one of the sheds where 

174 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

the prisoners sleep. Leading the way, the officer 
threw open a wooden door. Instantly some one 
shouted a command in Russian ; there was a scuffling 
of feet and the prisoners jumped up from their mat- 
tresses, struck attention and saluted. At the thought 
of being compelled to sleep in that room, cold chills 
ran up one's spine. In justice to the Germans it 
must be said that they build the place clean; they 
furnished it with new clean bedding; they do every- 
thing humanly possible to keep it clean. 

Given that same number of Russians, two hundred 
and fifty, put them in that same sized room, their 
mattresses in four rows, each mattress flush against 
the other, transport that shed into Russia and leave 
those men there without German supervision to make 
them keep reasonably clean, and you would get one 
result — cholera. As it is, every prisoner at the 
Doeberitz camp and every other prison camp in Ger- 
many — and I later visited many of them — can 
thank fortune that he was taken prisoner by a nation 
that knows how to keep things clean. 

Passing through the long room with the Russians 
standing on either side, bewildered at the sight of 
foreigners, noting the many windows for ventilation, 
one was glad to get out into the open air. There the 
Lieutenant Coloned confirmed something you had 
been thinking. 

" It's best not to get too near those fellows," he 
said. " We do our best to make them keep clean, 
but they've all got lice." Then the officer had his 
little joke. " For a few days before we had these 

175 ' 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

quarters ready we had to keep all nationalities to- 
gether, so the Englishmen caught it from the Kus- 
sians. They've been scrubbing ever since, but then 
they should share everything. Are they not allies? " 

Walking up and down the side streets of the Eus- 
sian section one saw faces pressed against the window 
panes, others peering from behind the doors, while 
others boldly came out to view the Lieutenant Colo- 
nel's guest. Here one noticed the difference in the 
Eussian soldier. Two distinct types, one with the pre- 
dominance of Tatar blood, heavy faced and tiny eyed, 
as devoid of expression as a pudgy Japanese; but 
there was the other Eussian, the man from the North, 
more alert looking, who grinned at you as you went 
by, and seemed to see something funny in it. 

We next came upon a temporary tent where two 
hundred men were quartered in a place a hundred 
feet long and thirty feet wide. It was dark inside 
the tent, but by the aid of a candle that probably 
burned with difficulty in that air, one could see rows 
of excelsior mattresses packed in as close together as 
possible on the bare ground. The place was a night- 
mare, and the thought of two hundred and fifty men 
sleeping there was incredible. What impressed one, 
though, was not so much the conditions in that tent, 
for we could see near by a new shed, intended for 
them, needing only a day's work to complete it, but 
the policy of entire sincerity on the part of the War 
Ministry in permitting an American correspondent to 
see this section of the camp. 

We then came upon the Englishmen. Their quar- 

X76 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

ters were just the same as the Kussians, and as we 
later saw, equally as good as those occupied by the 
comparatively few Frenchmen at Doeberitz. The 
Germans had given them their quarters clean, and 
they had kept them clean. It was a relief to go among 
them. It was with an odd sensation, too, that an 
American heard these men, these prisoners of war, 
speak his own language. Like the Kussians, those 
who had been sitting, sprang on to their feet, but there 
was no salute. There was none of the unctuous ser- 
vility noticeable among the Slavs. There was no at- 
tempt to curry favor with the officers of the camp, 
and one admired the English tremendously for that. 
They had played the game of war, lost, and they were 
taking their medicine. Their attitude, you saw, as 
you looked down their line of faces, was admirable. 

To my amazement the Lieutenant Colonel turned to 
me and said, " You can talk to these men if you like,'' 
adding, " I know now what they'll say to you." 

And standing off he listened to the conversation 
with a smile. 

" Well, boys, how do you like it here? " 

" Eotten," was the answer given together. 

I looked at the officer; he seemed not surprised. 

" Where were you captured? " I asked a particu- 
larly boyish marine. 

" At Antwerp, sir.'' 

" Then you fellows are the new recruits that were 
sent over there? " 

They all said, '' Yes." 

" How long were you drilled? " 

177 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" About two weeks, sir." 

And one was struck with the pitiful side of the 
blunder that made the First Lord of England's Ad- 
miralty the laughing stock of military experts the 
world over. In America we had read and only half 
believed that Winston Churchill had taken five thou- 
sand young men, practically greenhorns, and thrown 
them into Antwerp, a mere handful compared to the 
German hosts. That needless sacrifice of men, that 
useless waste of five thousand, their number making 
them practically useless, came home now in another 
way. Every boy there — and they nearly all look 
like boys — could blame the high-hatted strategist of 
the Admiralty for their predicament. And many of 
them openly did. 

" The grub here," said a voice from their ranks, " is 
swill ; it's nothing but skilley, and poor stew at that. 
Slops, I calls it, sir." 

Having tasted the " slops," I could not agree with 
him and put it down to his inherent animosity to- 
wards all things German. I should have said that 
Dr. Eoediger of the Foreign Office seems more the 
good-looking, young Englishman of the university 
type than German; also his accent and intonation 
is entirely English. I noticed that when he spoke 
to me, the prisoners looked at him queerly. Then 
I saw two of them go off into a corner of the room 
and begin whispering; the chances are that they 
decided he was an English journalist who in some 
miraculous way had been granted permission to en- 
ter Germany and visit the Doeberitz camp. Hope is 

178 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

eternal with any one who is a prisoner. As we left 
the room, the officer going first, this was confirmed; 
beckoning Dr. Koediger, the two prisoners who had 
been whispering said to him, " When you go to Eng- 
land, won't you tell them over there that we get their 
letters all right, but that we're afraid the Germans 
are not going to let us have our parcels? " 

Dr. Koediger asked them what they meant. 

" Why, the folks write us that they are going to 
send us packages as Christmas presents — tobacco 
and things a chap can't get here. Now it would be 
a rotten Christmas if a chap didn't get those, wouldn't 
it? Can't you help us? " 

Dr. Koediger assured them if any packages came 
they would be delivered, but the prisoners seemed 
to doubt this, and when we left them their faces 
fell. As we were going out, one of them whis- 
pered to me, " See if you can get us our Christmas 
packages, won't you? " 

Christmas in a place like that. ... 

Drawn up outside another of the unpainted sheds, 
we saw two men whose appearance instantly con- 
trasted with the half slouch of those about them. 

"You're a regular, aren't you?" I asked a tall, 
powerfully built man who wore the chevrons of a ser- 
geant. 

" Yes," he replied. " The boys here are just new 
recruits." 

I caught the sympathy in his voice when he spoke 
of " the boys." His very manner, his stiff, unyield- 
ing, soldierly bearing, made me understand better 

179 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

than ever before what Kipling meant when he called 
the British soldier a king. More than ever one mar- 
veled at the system that takes men out of the London 
gutters and transforms them into regulars, into a 
sergeant who could stand amid the humiliation of that 
prison camp and not once forget that he was a soldier 
of England. That single man was one of the greatest 
tributes to the regular army of England that I have 
ever seen. 

I found myself talking to a browned, deep-chested 
sailor, whose red insignia told me he was a gunner's 
mate. 

"What are you doing here?'' I asked, surprised, 
not knowing how a man from a war ship could have 
been made a prisoner. 

" I was with one of the English naval guns at Ant- 
werp," he said. Then he made his complaint. It was 
different from the way the younger men had talked, 
based on a different thing, a different way of think- 
ing; in fact, his one way — the question of disci- 
pline. 

" The Germans expect me to keep good discipline 
here. I try to, but if they would feed us a little bet- 
ter, it would be easier. Every so often the lads kick 
on the grub." 

" It isn't really bad," I said to him. " I tasted 
gome of it." 

His manner was earnest. I knew he was sincere. 

" Well," he said, " I can bear up under it, but with 
gome of the lads here it is pretty hard. They are used 
to better." 

180 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

" But/^ I argued, " they can't expect what they get 
at home, can they? " 

He agreed with this himself, but persisted, " If 
they'd give us better grub, I could give them better 
discipline." 

It seemed to be the thing that concerned him most. 

As we went along talking to these English people, 
one heard all kind of stories. There was the marine, 
who, when he was captured, had seven pounds, and 
in ten weeks he had spent it all but one mark, buying 
himself little luxuries at the camp ; now he was won- 
dering what he was going to do with his money nearly 
all gone. There was another marine who, when I 
asked him why he had enlisted, did not say, " Because 
my country needed me," but rather, " Because I 
thought it would be a bit of a lark, you know.'' There 
was another fellow who had a grouch because the Ger- 
mans would not let him write long letters home. 

" Yes, that's the fellow," Lieutenant Colonel Alberti 
commented. ^^ The first day he was here, he wrote 
an eighteen-page letter. The officer in charge of the 
camp has to read every letter sent out by the prison- 
ers. For the first few days these fellows had nothing 
else to do but to sit down and write. You can im- 
agine the result. We were inundated with letters, 
so we had to put a limit on them. You see they all 
have to be translated. Now they are allowed to write 
every so often." 

The camp at Doeberitz Eoad only opened my eyes 
a little. Two days later I was watching the gray 
shape of a Zeppelin soaring two thousand meters 

181 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

above our motor, as we hurried down the Kaiser Wil- 
helm Road towards Zossen. This time a good friend 
had gone to General von Lowenfeld, the Commander 
of Berlin, and from him had been secured the excep- 
tional privilege to take photographs in the prison 
camp at Zossen. 

If my first sight of Doeberitz was sinister, Zossen 
was farce. As our motor drew up before a gate sim- 
ilar to Doeberitz, we were put into a light mood by 
the spectacle of a baggy, red-trousered Frenchman 
balancing himself on a little box and nailing a gap in 
the wall of his own prison. He was busy nailing a 
strand of barbed wire to a post and near him stood 
another Frenchman, who looked up at him, poked him 
in the ribs with his stick when the sentry wasn't look- 
ing, and made faces like a mischievous boy. The hu- 
mor of the situation was not out of the picture, so 
we afterwards learned, for the Zossen camp has a sur- 
prisingly good time of it. A handsome white-haired 
baron, who spoke excellent English, and who was in- 
troduced to us as the Lieutenant Baron von Malt- 
zahn, was as genial as the spirits of the prisoners. 
With Captain von Stutterheim, who has charge of the 
Weinberger section of the huge camp, they made an 
escort that was willing to do everything possible to 
show us every detail of Zossen. One quickly saw that 
the Captain and the Baron, who was the aide of the 
General in Command of the Zossen garrison, were 
proud of the camp. 

One saw at once that to all exterior appearances 
Weinberger camp was just like Doeberitz. There 

182 





Above — Calisthenics instead of 
rifle practice. 

Left — Prisoner making flowers 
for the chapel altar. 

Below — Luncheon is served at 
twelve. 




WITH FRENCH PRISONERS AT ZOSSEN. 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

were the same dirt center street, same side streets, the 
same rows of unpainted sheds. But there was a differ- 
ence that we later saw. At Doeberitz, as far as the 
eye can see, the flat land stretches away unrelieved 
only here and there by trees, but this Weinberger sec- 
tion of the Zossen camp is set down in a pine forest, 
as the Captain boasted, " One of the healthiest places 
near Berlin.'' Here, although the same number of 
men live in a shed — two hundred and fifty — they 
seem cleaner, which is because here they are mostly 
Frenchmen, although, to our delight, we later found 
a streetful of their black allies, the Turcos. At Zos- 
sen, too, I found a few Russians and Belgian civilians, 
although in Belgium, as I came to know, civilians and 
soldiers are synonymous — both firing upon the Ger- 
mans. As we walked up the street, we were surprised 
at the few German soldiers. 

" We don't need so many," the Baron explained to 
me. " Eighty guard, eight thousand prisoners. 
That's only one per cent., you see. And then over 
there," and he pointed to a tall wooden scaffolding, 
" we are going to have a searchlight on that, and an- 
other on the other side of the camp, so if everything 
happens to go wrong with the electric plant we can 
sweep the searchlights on the camp streets. Also in 
case of a disturbance we are going to have some rapid 
firers and a big gun. Over there, now," and he led 
me towards the fences, triple fences of barbed wire, 
" one of those wires on the inner fence — you see the 
soldiers and prisoners are protected from it by the 
outer wires — one of those wires is charged heavily 

183 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

with electricity, so that anybody trying to escape will 
be electrocuted. The prisoners have been warned.'^ 

As we continued on up the street, we were im- 
pressed by the number of Frenchmen. Everywhere 
one saw the baggy red trousers and the Baron told 
us that they were all prisoners from Maubeuge and 
Rheims. I noticed that squads of Frenchmen were 
marching up and down in command of a corporal and 
extending their ranks to go through the military set- 
ting-up drill. They seemed to move with a jaunty 
air, which contrasted with their nondescript appear- 
ance, and which spoke wonders for their spirit. 

" They weren't like that at Doeberitz," I said to 
Captain Stutterheim. " There everybody slouched 
around. Here they have some life. How do you ex- 
plain it? " 

The Captain didn't know. " They are taken the 
best of care of. They have plenty of money. We 
give them all the privileges we can and they seem to 
have made up their minds to enjoy themselves." 

Whereupon one decided that this marked difference 
in the spirit of the two camps was due to the fact that 
here they were nearly all Frenchmen, ready to enjoy 
life no matter where they were. 

" Yesterday," remarked the Captain, " there were 
6000 marks sent in the mail for these prisoners, and 
last week we had a day when 9000 marks were re- 
ceived. We are careful to do everything we can to 
make them comfortable; for instance, the French 
Catholics have streets to themselves ; so have the Prot- 
estants. We also separate the Russians and the 

184 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

Poles. We have to be very careful to keep the Tur- 
cos in a street of their own. They don't like the 
French, now, since they've heard that a Holy War 
has been decreed in Constantinople." 

Eating is one of the best things the Germans do, 
so it did not surprise me when the Captain led the 
way to the prisoners' kitchen. It looked the same 
as at Doeberitz, only here the huge caldrons were 
filled with a whitish semi-liquid substance that made 
you wonder, until the cook explained that it was 
rice. I was deciding that the prisoners were fed 
more substantially over at Doeberitz, when the Cap- 
tain remarked, " We have many Catholics here, you 
know, and to-day is Friday, so we give them rice in- 
stead of a meat stew." He went on to explain that the 
men received a pound and a half of bread every third 
day, as well as receiving the sausage and soup diet of 
Doeberitz. The men were doing things, not slouch- 
ing around. They were either making little articles 
or playing games. I saw them weaving slippers of 
straw and cutting out things with pocket knives; in 
one corner of the room a bit of gay color met the 
eye. A soldier was making paper flowers. In poor 
French I asked him what the flowers were for. 

^' They are for the chapel altar," he replied with 
dancing eyes. 

I turned to the Captain. " What ! Have you got 
a chapel here for these fellows? " 

" You will soon see it," he said. " They built the 
altar themselves, and among the captured soldiers are 
three French priests." 

185 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

At the end of the kitchen street I noticed an adi 
joining structure, which the Captain explained was 
the canteen. In there I found a wonderfully equipped 
little place, where all sorts of articles were for sale. 
Soldiers were sitting around just as farmers hang 
around a country store and talk. There was a gos- 
sipy air of snugness about the little place that made 
one think it belonged in the midst of a well fed gar- 
rison and not in a prison camp. There was a counted 
behind which stood a German salesman, assisted by 
a French interpreter, and this little canteen bore np 
relation whatever to the system of company stores in 
vogue in the mining camps of America. In other 
words, it was run to give the men the best possible 
for their money. 

On a blackboard I saw chalked different prices, 10 
Cigarettes for 10 Pfg., which is almost five for a cent. 

1 saw sponges strung on a string, which convinced 
me that the men in the camp were doubly anxious 
to keep clean. I was reminded of Coney Island by 
a little griddle of sizzling hot dogs, which could be 
bought for two cents each. I saw a basket full of 
segments of thick German wurst, 5 cents for a piece 

2 inches in diameter and 4 inches long. They even 
sold butter in that little store % 1^- for 12 cents, 
cheaper than you can get it in America. Sides of 
bacon, hams and long dangling wurst hung from 
the ceiling, and near them a wooden aeroplane tried 
to fly, while below on the floor, a pair of wooden shoes 
waited the owner who had the necessary 45 cents. 
On a table in a corner I saw where the games came 

186 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

from, checkers and cards, absurdly cheap. They even 
sold beer. I remarked on this. 

" It's not an intoxicating beer/' the Captain ex- 
plained. " It's what we call in Germany — Health 
Beer. It is used in cases of illness when a doctor 
wants to give a patient strength." 

It was after we had inspected a little room which 
one of the French soldiers had converted into a barber 
shop, where one might be shaved for 10 centimes, and 
where if one had 50 centimes he might be tempted by a 
sign that read, " Latest Parisian Haircut here " ; it 
was after we had talked with the sparkling-eyed bar- 
ber, happy these days — was not money plentiful 
among the prisoners? — that we came upon the sculp- 
tor. 

Opening a wooden door upon which was written 
in French that only officers might enter, the Captain 
bowed us into the last place that you would expect to 
find in a prison camp. Had the damp odor of clay 
not told you, you would have seen from the unfinished 
gray pedestal that stood by the window, that this lit- 
tle twelve by twelve room was a studio. There, stand- 
ing beside his work, a make-shift sculptor's apron 
over his soiled red and blue uniform, stood a young 
French soldier. The Baron explained to me that in 
1908 this man had won the second prize at Rome. He 
told me that his name was Robert L'Aryesse, and 
in my notebook he wrote his autograph so that I 
might not misspell his name. I asked him if he knew 
Paul Manship, the young American sculptor, who only 
a few years ago took the prize at Rome. At Man- 

187 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

ship's name the Frenchman's face lit up and he began 
eagerly to talk of the quarter where they had all lived 
in Italy. How was Manship? What was he doing? 
Oh, he had been very wonderful, that young Ameri- 
can! The admiration of Monsieur L'Aryesse was 
great. 

The Frenchman was so happy to hear news from 
an old comrade that he forgot that my command of 
his language was elementary and launched forth in a 
glowing appreciation of Manship which left me far 
behind. 

A photographer meanwhile caught sight of the 
statue of a Turk standing on the shoulders of a Kus- 
sian soldier with arm extended (the Baron explained 
it was to be used as a guidepost to the Zossen prison), 
and with a keen sense for a good human interest pic- 
ture began to focus his camera. 

M. L'Aryesse was in alarm; it would never do to 
take a picture. What if his friends should see it! 
He began wringing his hand and then nervously run- 
ning his fingers through his hair. To think of such 
a specimen of his work being photographed and pub- 
lished in America. But the photographer assured 
him that the statue was wonderful, and in an incredi- 
bly short time a flashlight powder boomed in the room 
and the job was done. 

From the studio we walked up to the end of the 
street and entered a shed where a swarm of roughly- 
clad prisoners divided into groups were standing 
around a post pulling at something. They were 
braiding straw. One of them exhibited a round mat 

188 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

made of braided straw about five inches in diameter, 
which, it appeared, were mats to put in the hoofs of 
the horses to keep out the snow. 

And again you marveled at the German system, 
this obvious weeding out of men who knew how to 
braid straw and putting them to work making a win- 
ter supply for the army horses. These men were the 
worst type of Belgians from the Antwerp slums and 
from the farms. One black-haired, evil-looking fel- 
low had two yellow bands sewn to the sleeve of his 
coat, the badge of their spokesman and officer. 

This black-haired gentleman was known as Lulu. 
Lulu was very proud of his rank. I doubted at first 
whether the man had a forehead; his black hair hung 
low ; he was of the type — and there were many more 
in that room like him — of the hereditary criminal. 
Our gunmen would look like saints in comparison 
with this apache of the slums. Through an inter- 
preter I was permitted to talk to the Belgians, and I 
chose the mildest looking man of them all. He said 
that he was perfectly satisfied to be where he was. 
The other men in the room nodded assent. This puz- 
zled me a little, for they looked sullen enough to be 
unafraid to speak their minds even in the presence 
of a gray coated Prussian officer. But the Belgian 
explained., '' Here we have a place to sleep, we get 
food, and we are not in danger of being killed." 

Another black-browed fellow volunteered his story. 
" When the war began I was a reserve. I was told 
to hide my uniform and shoot at the Germans when- 
ever I got a chance. Then I was called into regular 

189 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

service, and I put on my uniform and fought in the 
ranks. After that, with hundreds of my comrades, 
I was told to put on my civilian clothes again and 
go back home or any place where I could hide and 
take shots at any stray German soldiers I could 
see." 

This seemed to me to be a confirmation of the Ger- 
man charges, that soldier civilians had been making 
war upon them. 

At the other extremity of the street I found the 
other feature of the camp. Here were the Turkos. 
Dressed in outlandish costumes I saw some still wear- 
ing the burnooses of their tribes, others natty little, 
light blue, gold-embroidered jackets, some with the 
red fez, others with turbans, a motley collection that 
did not look at all the terrible Turco we had heard 
about. It happened to be what Captain Stutterheim 
called " Lice day," and thoroughly enjoying it the 
Turcos were standing in the street beating their 
blankets. 

The leader of the Belgians was Lulu ; but the Turks 
had a handsome gentleman who looked as if he would 
cut your throat for two cents, who answered to 
the name of Jumbo. Like Lulu, Jumbo was very 
proud of the two yellow stripes sewn on his arm. It 
was Lulu who posed his comrades for the photog- 
rapher, arranging them with a nice sense of values. 
And when I looked the length of that line, glanced 
from one brutish face to another, I need no other 
confirmation of the statement that out of two hun- 
dred Turcos at the Zossen camp one in every four 

190 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

had been captured with ghastly trophies in his pos- 
session. The same charge of savagery has been made 
against the Turk, but from everything I can learn 
about the Turkish soldier — and here in Berlin I have 
talked to three American correspondents who have 
traveled with Turkish armies — there is a vast dif- 
ference between the German trained Turkish soldier, 
and the French Turco. 

Presently we selected a grinning, black villain and 
the most dapper Frenchman in the camp; All his 
comrades roared with laughter when they understood, 
and the whole procession came up the camp street as 
if they were going to a workman's Sunday picnic. 
Nicely posed, they made a splendid picture, which 
provoked the Baron's ^^ Allies f and roars of deep- 
throated Germanic laughter. 

Possibly with a stage-manager's instinct to relieve 
the setting, the Captain walked us a short distance 
to a model little hospital camp in the pine woods. 
The surgeon in charge amazed us by saying that fifty 
per cent, of the captured French soldiers were tuber- 
cular. After walking with the wounded through the 
pines, we returned to the camp. We passed French- 
men busy at landscape gardening. It seemed incred- 
ible. On every camp street they had made a long 
box design of evergreen and lettered to read the name 
of the company and the regiment. 

It was then that I saw the man who had been mak- 
ing the paper flowers leave his shed and cross the 
street. Remembering what he had told me that the 
flowers were made for the chapel, I suggested that 

191 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

we go there. Following the soldier, we found our- 
selves in an anteroom at one end of a scrupulously 
clean shed. From the anteroom a door opened into 
a long unpainted room, at the far end of which I saw 
a crude altar. I noticed a square of red cloth of 
some cheap material, half covering the wall, and 
against this, in white and gold relief stood different 
figures of worship, candles, crucifixes, a host covered 
with a roughly cut piece of the same red muslin, and 
surmounting it all, high on the wall, an Almighty 
crown. 

I saw the soldier with the flowers enter by a distant 
door and give them to the priests. When the priest 
handed him a plain vase and let him fill it himself, 
the soldier seemed ready to cry out with happiness. 
Silently the three figures at the altar went about their 
devotions. Again the door opened, a line of pris- 
oners appeared, walking on tip-toe, their rough boots 
creaking; they filed across the room, and making two 
lines before the altar, dropped on their knees, their 
lips moving in a monotonous monotone of prayer. 
Eising, they tip-toed out and another file came in, 
and among them the vivid garments of a Turco. 
Making a sign to the Captain, I left the chapel. Pres- 
ently they brought the Turco to me. He could speak 
French. I asked him why he had turned Christian 
and he said something to the effect that he had seen 
the way to the one real religion. He was explaining 
volubly about his conversion just before a battle in 
France, when the Captain pulled off the Turco^s fez 
and grabbed a little braided pigtail concealed beneath. 

192 



PRISONERS OF WAR 

" Christian, eh? " laughed the Captain. " What 
are yon still wearing that thing for, then? '' 

The Turco began to grin. 

" This religion," he said, " makes it pleasant among 
the Frenchmen, and then when I get home — well, 
how can I be a good Mohammedan without this? " and 
lovingly he patted his braided hair. 

Prisoners of war? Are they ill or well treated? 
I leave my reader to judge the facts. I have tried to 
give you accurate pictures of the varied camps, 
typical of the German system. Of the camps in Eng- 
land and France, I do not know ; of the camps in 
Russia no man knows. To silence the stories of ill- 
treatment that official press bureaus intermittently 
produce, why not apply a remedy? 

Why not standardize the prison camps? As it is a 
task for humanitarians why should not the sugges- 
tions come from Switzerland, the home of the Red 
Cross, with the tacit understanding and backing up 
of the United States. A standard set of prison camp 
recommendations could be drafted recommending 
certain quantities and kinds of food, certain condi- 
tions for sleeping quarters, certain limitations to the 
enforced labor. The old Geneva document is out of 
date; its compilers could not foresee a World War; 
no nation to-day could meet its recommendations; 
the problem of handling prisoners of war has be- 
come too vast. 



193 



X 

ON THE HEELS OF THE KUSSIAN 
EETREAT 

1 HE Russians were retreating! In Pschoor's our 
waiter told us; on the Linden great pennants began 
to appear; an hour and Berlin had bedecked itself in 
flags. . . . The Russians were retreating! In front 
of the newspaper ofl&ces the crowds stood twenty deep, 
their faces turned to a bulletin which said that Hin- 
denburg was driving the enemy from East Prussia. 
Magically, vendors selling little photographic buttons 
of the German hero, swarmed on to the streets. ^^ Bil- 
der von Hindenhurg! Bilder von Hindenburg ! '^ 

The great cafes which an hour ago had been empty, 
were suddenly filled. The air was tense with excite- 
ment. At every table the " beer strategists " were dis- 
cussing this newest of great victories, which they were 
calling a second Tannenberg. Unable even to get a 
place of vantage from which to overlook this ecstasy 
of patriotism, I returned to Adlon just in time to 
receive a message from a blue-coated page boy ; Major 
von Herwarth, of the General Staff, wanted me at the 
telephone. 

" Good afternoon, Mr. Fox,'' the Major was saying. 
" I am very happy to say that everything has been ar- 

194 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

ranged and that you start to-night for the East." 
Thanking Major von Herwarth, who has done every- 
thing in his power to help every open-minded Ameri- 
can correspondent locate the facts, I hurried to my 
room to get my luggage together. 

And an hour later we were completing arrange- 
ments for the most amazing piece of reporting done 
in this war. With the cooperation of the Foreign 
Office, the Staff had decided to permit Herbert Corey 
and myself to send collaborated reports from the 
front to America. Subsequently filed at different 
points on the battle line, they went by military tele- 
graph into Germany, thence by the regular Govern- 
ment lines to Berlin, thence by the great wireless to 
Sayville, Long Island. Only a limited number of 
words a day are sent by the transatlantic wireless but 
the Foreign Office gave us one hundred and fifty of 
these which is why thirty-seven American cities read 
as .swiftly as science could bring it to them, the truth 
of the terrific smash of Hindenburg's army. 

That night, my only luggage, a change of clothing 
wrapped in a sleeping bag — for we had been cau- 
tioned to reduce what we had brought to the barest 
necessities — I went at eleven to the Friedrichstrasse 
Bahnhof where I met the officer who was to take me 
to the front. I found Baron von Stietencron, a cap- 
tain in the 5th Eegiment of the Prussian Guards, the 
crack infantry of Germany, to be a light spirited 
devil-may-care type of officer, gifted with a touch- 
and-go sense of humor, high strung and imaginative. 
Since the war he had let a reddish beard grow around 

195 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Ms chin but one could see he was young and never 
happy in the field unless he was leading a charge. 
Indeed, later that night I learned that Baron von 
Stietencron had been shot through the throat when 
the Germans stormed at St. Quentin! 

Troops swarmed on the platform; new recruits go- 
ing out to fill the gaps in the line, officers rejoining 
their regiments. The train for Konigsberg glided 
into the arc lighted shed; we managed to get a first 
class compartment. 

" I tried to get sleeping accommodation," apologized 
Baron von Stietencron, who spoke good American, 
" but we were too late." 

To the waving and calling of good-bys, the train 
glided past the pallid faces of soldiers' loved ones, 
and clanking over the switches, turned its headlight 
towards the Eastern night. It was near three before 
any of us thought of sleeping. In that short space 
of time we came to know Baron von Stietencron amaz- 
ingly well. And I heard some things of war that 
made my blood run cold. 

" The Russians are in retreat now at this point," 
explained the Baron, tracing his finger over one of 
those marvelously minute staff maps. " We arrive 
at Konigsberg in the morning and from there we 
shall go south to Lyck. It was at Lyck that the first 
hig engagement of the battle took place." 

Lyck from which only a few days ago the Russians 
had been sent fiying! There was no bed that night; 
we slept sitting but the drowsy rumble of the car 
wheels seemed to be the clatter of the Russian retreat 

196 




Burying Russians on the East Prussian frontier. 




Reinforcements following our motor into Russia. 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

and when the big light glared through the window 
into my eyes, I had to awake fully before realizing 
that it was not a searchlight seeking out the retreat- 
ing soldiers of the Czar, but only the station lamp at 
Dirschau. 

Morning found us in the beery dining-room of the 
old station at Konigsberg, breakfasting on coffee 
and wurst, and watching through the window a 
bivouac of young soldiers who had spent the night 
outside. We were walking down the platform to take 
the train for Korschen, when we saw a little boy tug 
at his mother's arm and stare with mouth agape into 
the sky. There to the south what seemed to be a 
stub of black pencil was slowly dissolving into the 
snow gray clouds. " Zeppelin ! Zeppelin ! " In a 
clamor the waiting rooms emptied but already the 
great bag was a thing of the mists, vanishing, with 
its cargo of death, towards Warsaw. 

Half an hour and we were on the train for Kor- 
schen. 

Running almost due south from Konigsberg, the 
railroad enters Masurenland where swamps and lakes 
still hold the Russian dead of those terrible August 
days, when Tannenberg turned East Prussia red. 
There the empty yellowish fields, undulating from 
hillock to gully, across the picture that the car win- 
dow framed, bristled but five days before with Rus- 
sian lines. There at Korschen where we changed 
cars, they had burned the station. There we saw on 
flat cars, ready to be pulled to some point behind 
the front, three black painted motors that the Rus- 

197 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

sians had abandoned in their flight ; coupled to them 
a heavy truck, bearing a long German howitzer; 
beside that a Belgian freight car, marked Louvain. 
Somehow it seemed quite natural that they all should 
be there — the Kussian motors, the Belgian car, the 
German gun. 

It was just as we were leaving Korschen that a 
smiling slender young man who wore glasses, bowed 
outside the compartment door, and said : " You're 
an American, aren't you? " And when I told him 
yes, he said : " I am too." He went on to say that 
he was from Passaic, and I found myself recalling 
Gus Schwing of Newark, the Lieutenant Brevet whom 
we had met in Brussels and wondering if all the 
Americans in the German army came from New 
Jersey. 

" I am an architect in Passaic," he said. " I hap- 
pened to be in Germany on August 3rd. Before com- 
ing to America I had served my time in the army, 
but I, being born in Germany, offered my services 
at the outbreak of war to the government. They 
are using me to go behind the army, building up what 
has been destroyed. I have just come from France 
where we're rebuilding everything behind our battle 
line." 

Captain von Stietencron, who had noticed my 
amazement, smiled and added, " In France and Bel- 
gium our soldiers planted the fields with a winter 
crop, last fall, and they're planting an autumn crop 
now." 

Which seems to be a case of harvesting machines 

198 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

following the howitzers. At Sttirlack where the rail- 
road strikes due east for Lotzen we were made to feel 
the growing intimacy of the front, by being shunted 
on a side while troop trains rumbled by for an hour. 
It being four o'clock then and not having been able 
to eat since morning, the Baron led a foraging ex- 
pedition into a track-side farmhouse, which resulted 
in more wurst and heavy black bread. I can still 
see the expression in that old farmer's eyes as, open- 
ing the cottage door, he saw the Baron outside. It was 
as if the gray officer's cape, hanging over the Baron's 
broad shoulders, at once made him in the eyes of that 
old man, something superhuman and to be idolized. 
And I did not wholly understand this until I learned 
that the Russians had spent a rioting night in the 
farmer's house and that thenceforth to him, the Ger- 
man troops had become avengers and deliverers. 

" They are swine, these Eussians," he told the 
Baron. " Further on you will see." 

Beginning with Lotzen, the railroad became wholly 
military. No passenger cars went further than 
Lotzen, a direct feeding point to the front. Learn- 
ing, upon leaving our car that a military train would 
pull out for Lyck in a few minutes, we ran down the 
tracks, stumbling on the ties, for it had become dark, 
trying to find a place to get on. But every freight 
car filled with food and ammunition was sealed and 
even on the flat cars there was not room to stand be- 
tween the caissons and guns. 

" Next to the engine," some one shouted, but even 
as we ran towards that car, where we now saw the 

199 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

pale glow of lantern light framed by an open door, 
the train pulled out. 

" It's an hour/' remarked Captain von Stieten- 
cron, " before there's another." 

Picking our way back over the rails we made to- 
wards the dimly lighted station, its platform swarm- 
ing with soldiers, gleaming with bayonets as they 
moved in a path of light. Entering a dingy waiting 
room, we stood beside a crowded lunch counter while 
the Baron went in to see the station Kommandant. 
Around the little stained topped table officers were 
eating dinner. 

I wondered first at the contrast of their uniforms 
stained and worn with the field, and the immaculate 
cleanliness of their persons, at their finger nails 
which each man must have manicured, for they shone, 
at their clean shaven faces, and glistening combed 
hair; one fancied their eyebrows were brushed too. 
These officers in the well worn uniforms stained by 
six months of field service had obviously made their 
toilettes as for the opera. 

We saw Captain von Stietencron coming out of 
the Kommandant' s office. 

" There will be no troop train leaving for Lyck,'^ 
he said, " until to-morrow. However, in forty minutes 
a big supply train is going and if you can stand 
riding in a freight car," and the Baron paused with 
the unspoken question. 

" Anything at all," I assured him. " When do we 
reach Lyck? " 

" With a supply train," he smiled, " one never 

200 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

knows." Whereupon, being a soldier, and having a 
chance to eat, the Baron proposed taking advantage 
of this chance. 

A steaming platter of an amazing good goulash, 
and we were picking our way over the rails to find 
the freight car in which we were to ride. We found 
it coupled to the engine and behind us, car after car, 
filled with ammunition, fodder and food, stretched 
endlessly up the track. We were in a freight car that 
had been painted inside and fitted with three long 
benches. From the white roof, two lanterns swung 
their flickering light across the brown walls, and at 
the farther end near a stiflingly hot round stove, I 
saw a big pile of straw where doubtless the train 
crew spent the night. 

So we sat under the swinging lanterns, while the 
light car rattled and shook as with a disorder. Time 
never passed more quickly, listening to the Captain's 
stories of the war. And later I knew of many things 
concerning that first great drive into France, of how 
Namur was taken by storm, but the Iron Cross that 
hung from Von Stietencron's coat did not appear in 
the narrative, although I referred to it many times. 

And with the shadows trembling on the wall and 
the two tired soldiers sleeping in the straw, it seemed 
the way to go to war, not as in the West, in a train 
on a soft plush seat. I involuntarily shuddered at 
the thought of the potential death we carried in the 
cars behind, the tons of ammunition coming now to 
make Russian dead. As the engine drew its heavy, 
dangerous load slowly on, through the partly opened 

201 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

door, I saw a drift of white falling snow beginning 
to blow past us in the night. 

By the time we reached Windennen, the fields had 
turned white and when a soldier told us we would 
be delayed here twenty minutes, we got out. A sul- 
len murmur, almost as of animals, met the ear, and 
walking up the tracks in the direction of the mur- 
mur, we saw presently, the glisten of bayonets and 
beyond that in the obscured light of a station lamp 
a horde of Eussian prisoners. Herded within the 
confines of a barbed wire square that gave the 
impression of having hastily been built as a Ge- 
fangenenlagery the Russians watched our approach 
with suspicious eyes. Splendid types of the human 
animal, deep chested, tall fellows, with mighty phy- 
siques and stupid faces, the Russians of that greater 
Russia, who exist in the fiction of those who portray 
the "beautiful Russian soul." One recognized the 
great coats of sheepskin and goat, the round shaggy 
fur hats, that had succeeded the natty peaked caps 
of the first mustering in ; one recognized the Russian 
smell which sickens you in the great prison camps 
all over Germany. As we looked at them the mut- 
tering ceased and uneasily they shifted about seem- 
ing to be waiting for something and instinctly you 
thought, upon realizing the utter ignorance of their 
faces waiting for a sentence of death. 

" Over here are the officers," remarked Captain von 
Stietencron, and we followed him to a separate en- 
closure where a yellow bearded Russian glowered at 
us from the doorway of what had been a signal tower, 

202 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

while another drew his tall form up straight and 
smiled. The Captain spoke to this man in German. 
I caught the words: Doctor of Medicine, Esthland, 
which is one of the Baltic provinces of Russia, where 
five centuries ago the inhabitants were German. 

" As a surgeon," the Captain was saying to tall, 
smiling, beardless Russian, "you might be returned 
to your country. There is a possibility.'' 

Emphatically the Russian shook his head. 

^^ No," he replied. " IVe had enough of their 
army. I want to remain in Germany." 

And then both evidently having interest in some 
proper noun that happened to fall into their conversa- 
tion, they talked with increasing pleasure and speed. 

" Queer," mused Von Stietencron, as we walked 
back to the freight car. " That Russian's father is 
the priest who gave me my first communion — and 
I meet him here." 

But then anything is possible in this war. 

From Lotzen to Lyck, by rail is twenty-five kilo- 
meters ; in times of peace, the average passenger train 
takes little more than half an hour. In times of war, 
the run of a heavy supply train such as ours, is about 
an hour. We left Lotzen before seven; four hours 
and Lyck was still away. Rattling along, jumping 
the switches into sidings while coaches filled with 
troops rushed clanking past, faintly luminous phan- 
toms in the snowy night, stopping at one little station 
after another, the weirdest ride of my life, even before 
we came to lucha. 

The village of lucha, typical of that section of East 

203 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Prussia which is known as Masurenland, hides be- 
hind the trees half a mile from the railroad. There 
being forty minutes before our train would leave, we 
gratefullj^ accepted Julius the station master's invi- 
tation to visit his house. It would be cozy there. 
" Just up the track aways," he said. Imagining a 
comfortable half hour of lounging on some pillowed 
German chair, we followed the station master who led 
the way with a lantern. Outside his house, a squat 
two floor, stone structure, I noticed in the yard, a 
sofa, from which the plush cover had been removed. 
"A frugal man,'' I thought; "saving it no doubt for 
something else." 

We followed him into the house. Nauseated by a 
stench we stared bewildered into a room. In the lan- 
tern's light, it was a place of pillage and filth. Torn 
papers made soft the floor, the walls seemed ragged 
with torn pictures, hanging shredlike from their 
frames — torn plush covers from old chairs, torn 
curtains — everything torn, broken or slashed. 

" The Eussians," he remarked, " they lived in my 
home," and I thought his eyes filled. " I lived here 
fifteen years. My boy was born here." 

Following the station master into the room where 
the Eussians had eaten, I saw the little brass meat 
cans of the Eussian commissary, strewn around the 
floor amid an overpowering clutter of cooked meat and 
decaying vegetables. I opened a little closet in the 
wall and stood looking at something that my electric 
torch picked out on the floor. It was a pair of cow's 
hoofs, cut off a little below the knees. Probably left 

204 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

there until they got ripe enough to be cooked in a 
stew. 

We found every room in that little home de- 
stroyed and filthy, and as we made our way across 
the snow to the village, we felt certain that we were 
to look upon even more depressing scenes. Little 
lucha, a pretty place on a crest of the rolling country, 
we found to be utterly and wantonly devastated. We 
learned there was no fighting in lucha, yet home after 
home we found destroyed. We visited the shop of 
G. Geydon, and found all the goods missing from his 
shelves, all the counters smashed, all his business 
papers torn and strewn on the floor. We went into 
another store, where amid a ruin of splintered wood, 
stood the owner's safe, blown open as by cracks- 
men. 

In another house, a private dwelling, we entered a 
room that the Kussian ofl&cers must have used as a 
council chamber, for chairs were drawn around one 
end of a long table. Beside the table, on the floor, 
I noticed a Kussian map of this section of Germany. 
Here in this room, beyond doubt, the staff officers 
were in conference when the alarm rang through the 
town — " The Germans are coming ! " Everywhere 
were signs of the panic in which they had fled. 

" On that hill over there," said the station master, 
pointing across the snow, " the Kussians had a trench. 
The morning after they retreated, we went up there 
and found it filled with loot and the dead bodies of 
three good women of the village whom they had taken 
up there, outraged, and slain." 

205 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" How long," I asked him, " were the Russians 
here?'' 

" From November sixth/' he replied, " to February 
twelfth." 

Six days ago! The trail was getting hot. As we 
passed the station, I looked in at a window and saw 
sitting on the floor there, their backs sliding down 
on the wall, a room filled with sleeping German sol- 
diers, obviously two machine gun squads, for the 
guns were in the middle of the room ; and beside this 
another room where in the light of a candle stub, un- 
der ofl&cers were playing cards with ten pfennig pieces 
as the stakes. Feeling as though I had been walking 
through a dream, I followed the others back to the car. 

It was after midnight when somebody said we were 
in Lyck and clambering down from the car, we began 
packing our way across the tracks towards the sta- 
tion. Even at a distance we could perceive the marks 
of destruction, with one jagged wall leaning against 
the night. Leading the way past the burned build- 
ing. Captain von Stietencron asked us to wait while 
he went into a rude shack where a light burned. Out 
of the night stalked a shadowy form and the electric 
eye of a powerful torch gleamed in my face, hesitated 
and darkened, while with a ^^ Gute iSfacht!'^ the 
shadowy form stalked on. It was the Lyck greeting 
— friend or foe? 

In a few minutes, the Captain called us to come 
into the little shack. 

" Be good enough to wait here," he said, " while I 
go out and find the officer who was to meet us in 

206 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

Lyck, and tell us where we will be quartered for the 
night.'' 

He was gone and we were looking around the little 
board walled room. In a darkened corner I discerned 
the sleeping forms of three soldiers and along a 
wooden shelf ^ sat two others with heavy lidded eyes, 
field telephones clamped to their heads. A large 
white shaded lamp, evidently from the same house as 
the sofa on which we sat and the three upholstered 
chairs, stood upon a rough board table in the center 
of the room. Getting up and walking around, I saw 
that the wooden shelf had been the table for the Rus- 
sian field telegraph, for two of their despatches ob- 
viously left there in the excitement of retreating, had 
been pasted by the Germans on the wall. 

The time passed with Captain von Stietencron plod- 
ding somewhere through the snow. A young officer 
came in, a big handsome fellow, who looked at me in 
polite surprise, and seating himself at the table, be- 
gan to write a letter. I saw that his pencil was of 
gold and flashing with little diamonds. 

" An American, I take it," he said after a pause. 
" I know your country well. I like it." I talked with 
him about the cities he had visited while he hesitated 
over his letter. " It is so difficult," he remarked, 
" when you are writing your wife from the front. 
You want to tell her all the news, and then," with a 
grim smile, " you don't." 

We watched him deliberating long over the com- 
position of the note which, finally sealing, he gave to 
a soldier and sped him away. 

207 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" I am leaving now for Kussia,'' he said, drawing 
on his great coat of beaver ; " I must be at headquar- 
ters by morning. Good night, I am most happy to 
have chanced to meet you." 

We heard the muffling snort of his motor die away 
in the snowy night. It was after three before the 
Baron returned. 

" I am so sorry," he apologized, " but there has been 
a mistake. They know nothing here about us. We 
must go in the morning to the — th Army headquar- 
ters at Goldap. And now," and the Baron looked 
about him in dismay, " we must sleep." 

So we stretched our sleeping bags on the floor of the 
shack and in a moment were sleeping like the soldiers, 
whom not even a cannon could awaken. . . . 

I awoke to find the brown coats of Russian soldiers 
passing outside the window. Rubbing the drowsiness 
out of my eyes, I saw follow, larger men in goat and 
sheepskins, and then a squad of black hatted, slit-eyed 
Siberians, a squad of strapping fair haired Finns. A 
guard of mature looking Landsturm complacently 
puffing at big German pipes were watching them 
shoveling away the snow. 

It was the second night I had not been able to take 
my clothes off, and as for the civilized luxuries, given 
a tooth brush, a morning shave is not a matter of 
grave concern. 

" Roll up your bag," advised Captain von Stieten- 
cron, " and leave it here. We'll go to the Officers' 
Casino for coffee. There a motor will meet us. We 

208 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

can pick up the baggage here and then we start for 
Goldap/' 

As we walked down the long shaded street that 
seemed to be the main street of Lyck, a gray trans- 
port train of " prairie schooners," slowly but steadily 
rattled by. The way was strewn with discarded car- 
tridge clips and smashed rifles. On the walls of the 
houses we began to see the spatter of shrapnel. 

" This is where General von Buelow's army broke 
through/' explained the Captain. " One division of 
our soldiers rolled up four Russian divisions here and 
put them in retreat for the frontier.'' 

An automobile of the Flying Corps shrieked past. 
We came into a zone of looted shops. We entered a 
store where bottled liquors had been sold, a chaos now 
of smashed glass. On the day of the battle when all 
discipline flew to the winds the Russians had evidently 
sought their solace or courage in vodka. We became 
aware that not a house nor store in Lyck had escaped 
their pillage. As we crossed a little public park we 
found they had vented their revenge at defeat by 
smashing every bench in the square. Since we 
learned that no Germans had remained in the town of 
Lyck, and no sniping could have been possible, this 
orgy of broken shop windows, blown up safes, and 
robbery, before our eyes, was the indisputable evidence 
of Russian barbarism. 

We had our coffee in a little inn that had been the 
Russian Officers' Casino where a squad of Germans 
were already at work cleaning out the filth. Black 

209 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

coffee, black bread, in a room wliere the wall was rid- 
dled with bullets, from the pistols of drunken Russian 
officers who had sat there making a target of a por- 
trait of the German Emperor, now lying on the floor. 
A tired officer of the Hussars came in as we left and 
I heard him say to Von Stietencron, " So their officers 
were here, were they?" And Von Stietencron re- 
plied : " I'm afraid they were as bad as their 
men. ..." 

We climbed into the automobile, one of the gray- 
green army cars that I had seen in the West, and in 
a few minutes we were rushing by the never ending 
transport train. We left Lyck with its pillaged 
houses and shelled walls behind and swept across the 
open country. But we could not put the war behind 
us. We overtook a long shuffling column of Russian 
prisoners and further on, the Germans who were 
slightly wounded walking with almost a springy step 
in contrast to the dispirited Russians. We passed 
another of the gray supply trains, where the sleepy 
horses of the Uhlan escort pranced on its flanks. W^e 
came to a bridge which the engineers were rebuilding, 
and had to make a detour, crossing further up the 
stream beside a burned mill, its twisted, charred, 
water wheel a mute witness of the devastation that the 
Russians have brought to this land. 

On the left the ground fell away into a gully and on 
the bottom of this I noticed a farmer's sled, the horse 
in a dead tangle beside it. I noticed a second sled, a 
third, a fourth ; apparently these sleds having been met 

210 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

on the road bj the beaten Kussians were hurled with 
their drivers into the gully below. 

As we drove into the great square at Goldap, a 
" goulash cannon/' one of the German field kitchens, 
was smoking. It was the only smoke we saw in this 
once busy town of eight thousand people. We 
seemed to be standing in a burned sepulcher for all 
around us the houses were black with fire and on the 
streets no human thing stirred, save soldiers. 

" I must go to the Kommandant," said the Captain, 
and noticing that I was staring at the desolation, he 
added, " There was no fighting in Goldap, not a shot. 
All this that you see has been done by the Russians." 

I wondered if there would be a roof to shelter us. 
Where could the German general and his staff have 
their headquarters? It seemed impossible that they 
could find a single habitable house in this awful 
desolation. We left the motor and walked around. 
On one of the side streets we questioned one of the 
victims of Russian brutality. She found us another. 
And we heard from their own lips black tales of Rus- 
sian savagery and violation of defenseless mothers and 
daughters — too ghastly for these pages. 

I saw Captain von Stietencron coming across the 
square. He looked perturbed. 

" I cannot understand it," he said. " There is no 
Oberkommandant here and in the office of the Etap- 
pen Kommando they told me that I must find a Ritt- 
meister Tzschirner." 

We went to Von Stietencron to find the Rittmeister, 

211 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

which means Captain of Cavalry. We found him 
standing beside a long rakish motor car, outside a 
looted bank. Von Stietencron held a long conference 
with the officer at the end of which I thought the 
Baron looked a trifle disappointed. 

" I must say good-by to you/' he said, coming over. 
" New orders from the staff. I must return to Berlin, 
and Rittmeister Tzschirner of General Hindenburg's 
staff will be your officer from now on." 

I remembered that first night in the train to 
Konigsberg, how Von Stietencron was constantly 
reiterating his boyish delight in the trip. And now 
with a glum face he was saying good-by. " Look me 
up when you return to Berlin," he said. " AVe'll have 
dinner together," and waving a farewell from the 
gray car he disappeared down the road. 

My new guide and councilor, Rittmeister Tzschir- 
ner, was a short, springy, fair haired, young officer, 
of the ideal cavalry build. I saw that his were the 
cold steady eyes of the fighter, yet not without a 
twinkle, and the good natured mouth that the little 
mustache could not hide, suggested that here again 
we were in luck — another of these wonderful Ger- 
man officers with a sense of humor. 

" Captain von Stietencron," I remarked, " said that 
headquarters were no longer here." 

" No," said Tzschirner, " they have moved up with 
the pursuit of the Russians. We start now, if you 
like, for Suwalki, Russia." 

If we liked ! Suwalki was on the very dust of the 
Russian retreat. 

212 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

" It is fifty kilometers to Suwalki/' said the Ritt- 
meister ; " we should make our arrival there by seven 
o'clock." 

He must have forgotten that it was on the line of 
communications. 

As we set out on this road it was growing dark. 
Turning in a southerly direction toward Kowahlen 
we began a ride through a vague, darkening country, 
peopled — except when our searchlight picked them 
up — with indistinct beings. Through the trees that 
fringe Goldap on the east, there gleamed a huge camp- 
fire that spread its yellow light on a ruined wall ; as 
long as we could, we watched the black forms that 
must have been soldiers, passing across the flames. 
The motor rumbled on; signs of the retreat began to 
appear. In the ditch beside the road, I saw a dead 
horse, a second dead horse, a third dead horse. An 
abandoned Russian cannon leaned against the night, 
its long howitzer barrel pointing an angle of ruin into 
the sky. One thought of that as a symbol of the 
Russian rout. 

Along the road there commenced a strew of cloth- 
ing, a trail of discarded hats and coats, the dirty 
brown of the Russian soldiery. I saw rifles, car- 
tridge bones, single shoes and then a broken caisson, 
a hooped roofed transport, overturned in the ditch; 
and then even whiter in the failing light, the scarred 
trees torn with shrapnel and shell. 

" Did your artillery harass their retreat? " I asked 
Rittmeister Tzschirner. 

" Oh, yes," he replied. " It was very fine." 

213 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

And the strewn debris of war continued in a silent 
clutter of horror; and an inky darkness closed round 
shutting it all out ; and we sat listening to the motor's 
rumble. Where were the dead? In the fields? We 
strained our eyes but the damp night was impassable ; 
yet we felt they were there. 

" Kittmeister/' I asked suddenly, " were many men 
killed here? " 

" Oh, yes. The losses of the Russians were very 
great. Our artillery shot very well. I cannot give 
you the exact number. We do not know. The Rus- 
sians did not wish us to know the regiments engaged 
so they carried away their dead. I mean they carried 
away as many as they could; but our soldiers came 
very fast and the Russians had not always the time. 
Yes, they left many dead but we cleared the road of 
them." 

"And the fields too?" 

" Oh, no," he said quickly as if unwilling that I 
should make a mistake. " In the fields here are many 
Russian dead. We shall bury them." 

We were passing between the fields of the unburied 
dead. . . . 

It was when we had made the turn of Kowahlen, 
which is where the road strikes due east toward the 
frontier, that we saw silhouetted against the sky a 
man, a woman and a girl. Caught by our headlight, 
they stood beside the road, as if they had paused there 
to rest. The man in the heavy coat of an East Prus- 
sian farmer leaned on a cane, watching with suspi- 
cious eyes. The woman, stout and motherly, sat on 

214 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

a stone, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes blinking 
from an awakened sleep. And the girl seemed to 
draw a cheap shawl as if to hide her face but not so 
quickly but that I saw she was astonishingly pretty. 
This sudden protective movement had its origin per- 
haps in some horrible experience. Had the Cos- 
sacks — 

The road tunneled through a vista of trees. We 
passed another peasant family — a father and a 
mother bearing packs, three children, one carrying a 
bird cage in which there was no bird. They too were 
on the heels of the retreat, only they were going back 
to the homes which they had fled in those terrifying 
November days when the Russians had overrun the 
land . . . going back to what? 

The sledge had stopped. A scrawny girl held the 
cow by a rope. As our searchlight glared into their 
faces, the children, piled among the household goods, 
frowned and blinked. The man was holding the 
horse. The woman was staring off into the night. 

Our gaze followed hers. Our headlight was shin- 
ing on a roofless house with charred windows as the 
empty sockets of a skull and revealed the outlines of a 
jagged wall that had been the barn, and a huddle of 
fence palings and soft earth, once the garden. The 
woman who sat with her children on the loaded 
sledge, must have sobbed — although we could not 
hear it above the motor's din — for the man holding 
the horse turned, and the girl holding the cow turned, 
and the frowning, blinking children turned in her 
direction. And after we had passed we looked back 

215 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMA: 

and they were standing there in the same postures, 
transfixed, gazing at the blackened chaos once their 
home. 

There are many villages between Kowahlen and 
the frontier — the villages of Lukellen, Drosdowen 
and Mierunsken. But to-day they are only names by 
which may be characterized certain works of Russian 
arson. Not a house did we find intact on this road to 
the frontier, not a home but that was ashes or if of 
stone whose walls were black. Not even the church 
at Mierunsken had escaped the torch. In a few mo- 
ments more we were in Russia. We did not need the 
striped frontier posts to confirm this; nor the holes 
and lumps, that marked the end of German road 
building. Something more significant revealed to us 
that at last we had come to the land of the Bear. 
For we passed through two villages but a kilometer 
apart and in these not a house had been burned, not 
even a fence smashed; they were Amt and Filipowa, 
in the Czar's domain. 

" Rittmeister,'' I asked, " did German soldiers fol- 
low the Russians down this road? '' 

" All the way to Suwalki," replied Tzschirner. 

" German soldiers," I persisted, " who passed 
through Goldap and all those villages to the frontier." 

^' Naturlich. That was the line of advance." 

I was silent. 

" Rittmeister, you have wonderful discipline in 
your army." 

Tzschirner seemed surprised. "Why?" 
t " I cannot understand," I said, " how your soldiers, 

216 



/>10N THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

seeing what the Russians had done to East Prussian 
villages, could refrain from taking vengeance on the 
first Russian village they entered." 

I think the Rittmeister was a little offended. 

" We are soldiers," he said with dignity ; " not crim- 
inals." He paused and perhaps guessing that Bel- 
gium was in my mind, ^' We only make war on non- 
combatants when they make war on us." 

Near Jemieliste we overtook the army. Visible at 
the extremity of our long, yellowish light, there grew 
out of the darkness, the grayish tops of transports, 
rolling as on a sea ; and as we came up with them we 
distinguished in their muffled clamor, the clanking 
of chains, the cries of the drivers and the cracking 
of whips on the horses' backs. Throttling down until 
we barely crept along, our soldier chauffeur dexter- 
ously guided the car between the maze of wagon 
wheels and balking horses, so on, until after I had 
counted twenty wagons struggling hub deep through 
the frozen snow, we came to the head of the column, 
where the serene officer, utterly oblivious to the con- 
fusion behind him, leisurely rode the lead. And I 
thought of that other great general who dared the 
Russian snows without railroads and all that modern 
science has given war, penetrating the land to Moscow 
and across such frightful roads through the heart of 
the Russian winter ; in that night one was awed with 
the name Napoleon. 

The yelling of the transport men died away. The 
gloom thickened; rain fell. Milanowizizna passed, a 
ghostly village. Torn, by heavy wagons, furrowed 

217 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

and frozen into icy ridges, the road became almost 
impassable. It was like going over a huge wash- 
board, with the corrugations running in crisscrosses. 
Jumping insanely from ridge to hole, our motor stood 
up wonderfully, until we came to an abrupt hill where 
nubbles of frozen snow impeded the way. Three 
times did Gelbricke, the chauffeur, try to make it ; and 
three times the wheels spun helplessly. Finally with 
reluctance the Kittmeister said it would be better if 
we all got out. And then in the pitch darkness and 
cold rain, we put our shoulders to the car, but with 
futile effort. 

" Let's find some wood for treads," I suggested. 

The Rittmeister would have none of it. He seemed 
to be mortified that we should be put to this incon- 
venience while guests of the German army. " Sey- 
ring ! " he called the mechanician by name. 

Of course, out on a Russian plain, in pitch dark- 
ness, it was quite easy to find wood ; but one thought 
that Seyring's " Jawohl " would have been equally as 
cheery had the Rittmeister ordered him to find a bot- 
tle of wine. 

I too went to find wood. Only my foot stumbled 
against something in the ditch and I almost fell upon 
it. And when I flashed on my electric torch I saw 
that it was a Russian soldier. His face was buried 
in the snow, his stiff, extended arms pawing the 
frozen ground. On the shoulders of his long brown 
coat I read the number of his regiment, 256, and on 
his feet, from which the boots had been stripped, were 

218 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

wound with strips of knitted wool. His black, bare 
head, intensified by the contrasting snow, seemed the 
blackness of a raven. . . . The others found the wood. 

The car climbed the hill. Near Mlinisko we passed 
a clanking transport, near Turowka, a mired limou- 
sine of the Flying Corps. The rain froze to hail and 
as we crossed the great open plain to Suwalki, snow 
came, a slow, steady fall, unnaturally white in the 
headlight's glow. Progress became even slower. 
Ahead the road seemed choked with wagons, but al- 
ways there opened up a lane through which drove 
this soldier shaving the hub of transports with the 
nicety of a race driver. 

And then we came up with the artillery, two bat- 
teries to pound away at the crumbling Russian front. 
We saw the drivers, each with a carbine slung over 
his shoulders, astride the straining horses, while the 
heavy caissons and guns rumbled behind. Our head- 
light shone upon a gray and red cloaked soldier, sit- 
ting on the gun carriage, his spurred boots dangling, 
his body jumping and jouncing, while quite com- 
placently he munched on a bar of chocolate. The 
battery blocked the road; Seyring blew his horn; 
Rittmeister was shouting, ^' Los! Los! Away! 
Away ! '' But the soldier with the chocolate simply 
ignored us and went on munching that sweet of which 
the German army is so fond. 

'^ Ahspannen! '^ the command gutturaled from 
driver to driver. It was the order to unhitch the 
horses. It being impossible now to drive ahead, we 
watched the tired carabineers slide down from the sad- 

219 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

dies and loosen the horses from the spans, while the 
gun crews poured out oats from big gray bags and 
gave the horses their meal. And, two by two, the 
drivers led them clanking off into the night, with the 
gun crews following on foot, with the caissons and can- 
non let standing in the snow. They were going to 
sleep. Where? On either side the rolling snow cov- 
ered plains seemed to spread inimitably, before gray- 
ing into the black Russian night. 

The horses gone, a gap opened in the road. 

''Los! Gelbricke! Los!'' 

To the Rittmeister's urgings, the car sped forward, 
and we rushed past the battery, so silent now, in 
the snowy night, but on the morrow to roar forth 
death. Through the gray white curtain of snow, the 
lights of Suwalki came twinkling to meet us, and as 
we drove down a shaded street, even there I could see 
the debris of war — discarded uniforms, guns and 
shells. And when finally we stopped before an old 
stone building and followed the Rittmeister through 
a damp archway into a dirty looking caf6, where we 
had ham and tea; after I had seen two German offi- 
cers pay for their meal and then bow courteously to 
the sullen proprietor of this Europiski Hotel, after 
I had stretched my sleeping bag on three chairs and 
said good night, I heard a swift succession of heavy 
reports. 

" The Russian artillery," said Rittmeister Tzschir- 
ner. 

" How do you know? " I asked. 

220 



ON THE HEELS OF THE RUSSIAN RETREAT 

" Because the Kussians fire like this — one-two- 
three-four, then — one-two-three-four. Listen." 

I caught then the quick but measured beat of their 
guns, but having just ridden down the road of their 
retreat, I could not think of their artillery as firing 
so methodically; rather, to me, those quick salvos 
seemed to be the firing of desperation, the frantic 
gunnery of men who knew the enemy was closing in 
— an enemy who upon their heels had followed the 
red Russian trail through East Prussia, across the 
snow swept plains to the pine forests of Augustowo, 
where even now the guns bellowed that a hell on earth 
was there. 



221 



XI 

THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

This is the first complete account of a great battle 
that has been told in this war 

1 HE battles in the East are so vast and the move- 
ments of the troops are so swift and secret that up 
to the middle of February the war against Kussia 
was, to all correspondents, only a thing to be seen in 
unimportant fragments. Through sheer good fortune 
I saw the Battle of Augustowo Wald, which historians 
may or may not write of as being a decisive conflict, 
but in which a Eussian army of 240,000 men was an- 
nihilated; only one intact division escaping to 
Grodno, there to be swallowed up by a new Russian 
army, which became the new Tenth. And because of 
these huge reinforcements the Germans did not break 
the line of the Niemen, flinging it back on Warsaw. 
Russia has denied this annihilation. With another 
American, Herbert Corey, I saw it. 

The story I shall tell is a story of this battle, of 
its strategy, as told to me by Rittmeister Tzschirner 
of Field Marshal von Hindenburg's staff, of its actual 
fighting, which I saw, and of its celebration. For 
on the night of victory I was the guest of Excellence 

222 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

von Eichorn, commander-in-cliief of one of Von Hin- 
denburg's victorious armies, and with his staff I sat 
around a strange banquet — a little room in a Rus- 
sian inn, with candle-light flickering on the wall, and 
for music, the rolling of the guns, while the victors 
celebrated the battle in a way that I could not under- 
stand. 

The Road to Augustowo 

We awoke to hear the guns, great drums beating a 
sinister roll. 

" To-day," said Rittmeister Tzschirner, " I take you 
to the front. Do you wish? " 

I was for a quick breakfast. 

" Oh, no, Mr. Fox. There is much time. The battle 
will endure all day.'' 

Nevertheless I hurried the Rittmeister to break- 
fast downstairs in the Europiski Hotel. Quantities 
of black coffee, served in long glasses, platters of 
white buns coated with some tasteless powder, suspi- 
ciously Russian, and Ober-Lieutenant Lieckfeld of the 
Eighth Battery of the First Guards, joined us — a 
handsome, healthy skinned, smiling man, who spoke a 
fair English. He told us what an officer had seen on 
the road back from Augustowo this morning. 

" Just this side of Augustowo,'' explained Lieck- 
feld, " the Captain saw a Russian gun that had been 
hit by one of our shells. The horses and men were 
all killed and the carriages smashed. The Captain 
said they looked very bloody and all sort of mixed." 

This was the kind of war I had seen for years in 

223 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

pictures — the war of de Neuville and Verestchagin. 
I wonder if the officers noticed my impatience to be on 
the road to Augustowo. And then the Rittmeister 
did a significant thing. Drawing his Browning, he 
drew the clip from the magazine to see that it was 
full. 

" And now/' he said, " we go to Augustowo/' add- 
ing with a tantalizing smile, " Do you wish? '' 

" Don't kill any Russians," Lieckfeld called after 
us and chuckled. 

Following the Petersburg Prospeckt, a wide un- 
paved highway, obviously the Main Street of gray, 
squat housed Suwalki, our motor bumped out on the 
road to Augustowo — a road of frozen brown snow in 
the middle of a dreary snow covered plain and tun- 
neling ahead into a green forest of pine. We passed 
a huddle of miserable huts and a great Russian church 
with bulb shaped cupolas, slender minarets and a 
dome gleaming with gold. We passed the deserted 
garrison barracks, places of filth, in which the Ger- 
mans would not live. We ran along a line of pretty 
pale blue fence palings; and then we saw the boys. 
They seemed to be playing a game. A little fellow, 
whose round fur hat and brown pea jacket was typi- 
cal of his chums, was poking at something with a 
stick. Greatly excited, he called the boys, who 
seemed to be looking for something across the road in 
the snow. Stridently he called to them. 

" That boy is saying," explained Tzschirner who 
understands Russian, " that he has found another 



one." 



224 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

And we saw that the youngster was poking the 
snow away from a big bearded man in a sheepskin 
coat. The game the boys of Suwalki were playing 
was hunting the dead. . . . 

The woods opened up; a funeral stillness closed in. 
A Uhlan on patrol passed at a center. Tzschirner 
gave a command and the motor stopped. ^^ Laden," 
he said, and while the red haired mechanician was 
loading the two carbines strapped to the car, Tzschir- 
ner said, " The battle is continuing. Russians cut 
off from their regiments are in the woods. They are 
fugitives. They are hungry and if they see us, they'll 
shoot. I must say you this.'' 

We began to take an interest in the woods. We 
saw that the slender trunks of the pines gave poor 
concealment to a man but in the snow we discerned 
many tracks. Somewhere in their depths a rifle 
cracked. Tzschirner stopped the car. We listened; 
everything was still. We drove on. We came upon 
an abandoned howitzer and in the snow a magnum 
of unexploded shells, a great stain that had turned 
black, and a yellow mound of fresh clay. 

" A gun position," said Tzschirner briefly. " Our 
soldiers made advance too rapidly for the Russians 
to retreat." 

There are thirty kilometers on the road from Su- 
walki to Augustowo and the thirty kilometers were 
strewn with the tangle and debris of war. I found 
myself counting caps — round Russian caps of goat- 
skin and fur, and the black peaked caps of muster 
day. I counted these caps until I counted thirty- 

225 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

three in an unbelievably short time and I found my- 
self thinking of them as thirty-three dead. For a 
soldier will discard his coat before his cap. 

Near Szszepki which is where the forest opens into 
a brief snow gray plain, ringed with a dreariness of 
sky, we met the woman, a young peasant woman, her 
loose hair wreathing her sullen eyes with thick black 
curls. As she saw us, she made the sign of the 
cross. 

" Stop the car," I called to Tzschirner. 

He got out with me, the woman gave a scream and 
fled down the road. We ran after her. 

" Please, Madame,'^ the Rittmeister asked her, 
" why did you make the sign of the cross when you 
saw us?'' 

She began mumbling a prayer; her shaking finger 
traced the sign in the air. 

" Why,'' said Tzschirner gently, " do you fear us? " 

When she spoke it was without looking up. " Our 
soldiers," she said, losing her fear, " told me you were 
devils, so I thought if I made the cross you could not 
pass it. They told me you would burn my house and 
kill me." 

" Has your house been burned? " 

" No-o." 

"And you will not be killed, Madame," said 
Tzschirner, touching his hat. " I promise you." 

We left her looking after us in a bewildered way 
and when we climbed into the motor she fled up the 
road. 

" They have bad minds, the Russians," remarked 

226 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

Tzschirner. " They know what they have made in 
East Prussia." 

And then near Szczobra we overtook the " clean up 
squad.'' We saw them advancing, as in extended or- 
der, the teeth of a great comb, cleaning woods, fields 
and ponds, of the dead. We saw segments of the 
line abruptly stop, and come together and begin dig- 
ging in the snow. 

" How," I asked Tzschirner, " did they miss the 
d^ad we saw along the road? " 

" They have not been there," he explained. " They 
first work where considerable actions have occurred; 
then they take up the more isolated points of the 
line." 

All this time the grumble of the guns had grown 
more distinct. We were nearing Augustowo. A 
horde of prisoners stolidly shuffled and I saw that 
their hands and faces were black with the battle. 
The German light wounded commenced to straggle 
along, holding a white bound hand, or unconcernedly 
handling a cheap cigar while the other arm hung 
cradled in a sling. I thought they all looked tired 
but their step was alert. And always the roll of the 
guns grew louder, monstrous drums insanely beating 
their Miserere from somewhere beyond the tops of 
the pines. 

Finding at Szczobra a field bakery, we ate. Seated 
around an empty box with two officers of the commis- 
sary, we ate from deep tin dishes filled with a stew 
of white beans and beef ; there were chunks of a brown 
bread made from Kussian meal. And the floor al- 

227 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

most in the long shed that the engineers had built 
in a night, was covered with loaves of the brown 
bread baked fresh in the twelve oven transports out- 
side ; while at the other end of the shed, white aproned 
bakers were mixing their dough. 

" They are all volunteers," the commissary officer 
was saying. " By trade they are bakers and when 
war broke out they at once put themselves at the dis- 
posal of the government. I am sorry," he went on, 
'^that I cannot give you better bread, but here in 
Kussia," and he shrugged. 

" I like the Kussian meal," I told him. " What did 
you do, commandeer quantities of it? " 

" We bought it," he replied a little indignant, " and 
paid cash for it. As soon as we occupied Suwalki, 
all the Jews took their meal out of their hiding places 
and brought it to us. Here," and opening a wallet 
he handed me a receipt that showed how Herr Fried- 
mann, of Suwalki, had received 10,000 marks cash for 
meal delivered to the German army. 

We continued in the motor. I saw a trooper's 
grave — his lance upright in the snow, the black and 
white Prussian pennon snapping in the wind. We 
passed a frozen pond where Russian prisoners were 
breaking the ice to fill their canteens. We stooped at 
a great wooden cross, on which an officer's Rosary 
hung ; and then I saw the birds. 

They were gray bellied birds with black wings and 
heads. They were waddling birds that grotesquely 
marched across the snow, pecking as they went. They 
were fluttering winged birds that you thought of as 

228 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

being too heavy to fly strong. And as I noticed one 
near the road, I saw that his gray breast bulged 
plumply ; he seemed to have eaten well. 

Further on in the field, — in the same field where 
waddled the birds, — I saw a shapeless heap of men ; 
and then another heap, and another, until I had 
counted six. I saw a bristle of barbed entanglements 
trampled in the snow and just behind them a trench, 
a deep long grave that days before the living had dug 
for themselves — a pit filled with clay and snow and 
men. I had never seen such men before. They were 
men postured like jumping jacks only their legs and 
arms were still. They were men who seemed stand- 
ing on their heads, their feet over the trench top, 
turned soles up to the sky. Somehow, they gave you 
the impression of being all legs and arms, — stiff 
grotesque legs, stiff grotesque arms. They all seemed 
lumpy, all but one, and he was standing up, his gray- 
ish face turned in the direction the clean up squad 
would come; and he was standing because the piled 
dead braced him so that he could not fall. . . . 

The Road Through the Forest 

"Eighty thousand prisoners by to-night — I 
think," added Rittmeister Tzschirner. He had just 
left the office of the Kommandant in Augustowo, a 
little gray building, the walls chipped with shrapnel. 
From the East rolled the steady boom of the guns ; the 
battle was two miles away. 

" I have just looked at his map," continued Tzschir- 

229 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

ner, and he glanced at his watch. " One o^cIock. . . . 
I think by to-night we make eighty thousand prison- 
ers — perhaps not so many, naturlich. But from the 
position of the lines, I think yes. . . . And now I 
think I can take you to the battle. You wish? " 

Above the bluish walls of Augustowo the tops of 
the green pines laid against a leaden sky. Over there 
was the battle, the dense forest an impenetrable cur- 
tain, through which reverberated the pang of shrap- 
nel and the roar of grenaten. 

" I must tell you," hesitated Tzschirner, as our mo- 
tor, lurching through the mud of Augustowo, turned 
toward the woods. " It is very dangerous. The for- 
est is filled with Russians and they will shoot. It 
may not be agreeable." 

" Let's have a try at it," I suggested. 

The Rittmeister smiled. 

^^ Seyring I " he called to the red haired mechani- 
cian. ^^ Fertig zu feuer! Be ready to fire. Gel- 
bricke ! " and he tapped the chauffeur. " If I say turn 
back, turn instantly and drive fast ! " With a smile 
he turned to me. " Mr. Fox," he said, " you know 
how to use German rifle, do you not? " 

Then making a turn to the left, we entered a better 
road that tunneled away through the trees. 

" This is the road to Grodno," said Tzschirner, " the 
Russian fortress. Our soldiers make their advance 
here." 

We rattled across a wooden bridge that the Ger- 
man pioneers had thrown on top of a dynamited ruin 
across the Augustowo Canal. The road dipped to a 

230 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

lower level, that pointed toward Grodno, a straight 
brown band finally seeming to terminate where rows 
of distant pines, meeting like converging railway 
tracks, closed across the last thin slit of sky. At a 
slower pace, as though sensing danger, the car passed 
into the woods. 

There came a German soldier. He was on foot. 
He had no rifle and his right hand squeezed the left as 
though it were asleep and he would waken it. But 
as we drew near, he dropped the left hand as though 
it were of no importance — and I saw the blood spread 
all over it — and the right hand flashed to his cap. 

" Where," asked the Kittmeister, returning the sa- 
lute, " are the Eussians? '' 

" In the woods," said the soldier, and walked on ; 
he was holding his hand again. 

Watching the woods, we drove slowly on, past the 
few huts, which are Bealobrzegi, until we heard a 
noise like a bunch of Japanese firecrackers confusedly 
exploding in the woods. 

" The Russians ! " I exclaimed. 

" And our soldiers," added Tzschimer. " Our men 
are going through the forest hunting them down." 

And I began to understand the fresh tracks in the 
snow that crisscrossed in among the slender trunks 
of the pines, until they darkened with the forest 
gloom. And I began to think of this battle of Au- 
gustowo Wald as another Battle of the Wilderness, 
although here the ground was free of underbrush; 
and I realized that on both sides of us a grim game 
was being played, that we could hear but could not 

231 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

see; a long pursuit in which Germans and Russians 
stalked each other from tree to tree, to find the quarry 
and kill. 

A battery clanked by at a canter, and the gunners, 
swinging their legs, seemed stolid and tired. I be- 
gan to see traces of death in the snow — discarded 
clothing, broken rifles, clips of cartridges, a profusion 
of shaggy Russian hats — all the frightful debris of 
war. We met a Huzzar and he too seemed tired and 
lethargic. 

^^ Aus wo fahren sie ? '\csilled Tzschirner. 

^^ Von Promiska/^ shouted the Huzzar. 

'' 1st der Weg freif '' 

^^ Jawohl! Nach J amine.'' 

" The road is clear of Russians as far as the village 
of Jamine," explained Tzschirner. 

And then I saw the dead Russians. There was one 
who had fallen in a heap and you thought that his 
face, buried in the cold snow, had found solace there. 
I saw another who lay in a ditch, his waxy bearded 
face staring at the cheerless sky, his arms wide 
stretched as if impaled on a cross; and I noticed 
that his boots had been stripped from him, and that 
one foot was wound with a white stained cloth, as 
though bruised with the rush of retreating miles over 
the frozen roads . . . and now he could rest. 

And out of the gray drizzle down the road there 
emerged an old woman and a child. The old woman 
was a grotesque figure as she hobbled along in a vain 
attempt to run. The little girl at her heels looked 
incredibly old. She was carrying a schoolbag, bulg- 

232 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

ing with hastily packed belongings. In the old 
woman's arms there was something covered with a 
red cloth. She had a way of staring at this bundle 
and breaking into sobs. And as I watched them flee- 
ing down the road, a swarm of bullets sung overhead 
with a sucking sound and spattered among the trees. 
" They will see the dead men/' I thought. 

A grimy trooper was galloping down the road. 
" Halt ! " ordered the Kittmeister. 

" Where are the Eussians? " 

" In the woods, everywhere, in front and behind 
you," called the trooper, and galloped away. I heard 
Tzschirner ask the chauffeur how quickly he could 
turn round the car if we were attacked. The chauf- 
feur stopped and tried. The result was painfully 
slow. " I must warn you," said Tzschirner, " it is 
very dangerous. Entire companies of Eussians that 
have been cut off from their regiments are in the 
woods. They might easily surround us before help 
could come." 

" Let's try it a little further," I suggested, for as 
yet we had seen no living Eussian. 

^^ Langsam Gelbricke," called Tzschirner to the 
chauffeur, and then the Eittmeister drew his pistol 
and sat with his hand on the trigger, a precaution 
which until now I had never seen a German officer 
take in the tensest situations of the Eastern or West- 
ern front. From Jamine, the roar of the guns broke 
through the cold rain in a monotone of clamor, but 
more distinct became the rattle of rifles among the 
pines. A bullet kicked up the dirty snow. 

233 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

At that moment I glanced toward the edge of the 
trees at the left, where I saw a Russian lying on his 
back in the snow. He wore a brown army coat with 
red shoulder straps, sewed with the yellow numerals 
of his regiments. His gun was leaning against a tree 
and I thought that it had been torn from his hands 
or placed there. For with upraised arms, rigid in 
the struggle with death, his clawing hands seemed to 
have been turned to stone. At the same time, with 
odd irrelevance, there flashed into my mind the re- 
membrance of the lead soldiers that I had played 
with as a boy — a soldier whose gun I had broken 
off and whose arms I had bent, to signify his death. 
And I thought of the lead soldier until we passed a 
yellow haired Finn, whose hands were folded on his 
great chest, as though a comrade had fixed him for 
burial before fleeing among the firs. Now the crack 
of the rifles came closer and with more frequency, 
and we began to see blood upon the snow, and then 
a big red hole around which fragments of clothing 
and fragments of stiff things were strewn. " A shell 
burst there," remarked Tzschirner. 

A few paces on we came upon a dead horse from 
whose flanks a square chunk had been cut, presuma- 
bly by a fugitive who, with this first food of days, 
had crept into the woods. All around we could never 
see the men who were shooting or the dim outlines of 
their human targets. And then, from out of the trees, 
a German soldier came stumbling, and fell limply into 
the snow. Jumping out while the car was in mo- 
tion, our red haired mechanician ran toward him. 

234 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

" Dead/' called Seyring, throwing up his hands. 
Tzschirner seemed to come to a decision. 

" I think/' he said, " that this is as far as we had 
better go. You have seen it. It is the same.'' 

" But, Captain," I urged, " isn't there some place 
from which we could see an artillery position? " 

" You would go into the woods," bantered Tzschir- 
ner. " I will take you, but it is very dangerous." 

" No, Captain," I said. " We would like to see the 
battlefield from the position of one of your batteries 
in action." 

" That is possible," said Tzschirner. " But we 
must return to Augustowo and journey by another 
road." 

The rifles were cracking not two hundred meters 
away — so the Rittmeister said — as the car turned 
and raced down the road to Augustowo. We passed 
a rumbling ammunition train ; and the soldier sitting 
beside the driver of the first car was munching on 
a huge chunk of black bread. We noticed more of 
the fresh dead as we came to a lonely shack set in a 
little clearing among the pines. I saw outside the 
door a fallen man who, like a wild animal, had 
crawled to some hidden place to die. Always guns 
were booming in the direction of Jamine, their song 
rolling over the sky an immeasurable travail. 
Here among the pines, to the right and to the left, 
the ruthless game of tracking and shooting went on 
with a cracking sound, and the snow became more 
cluttered with coats, and I counted furry, shaggy 
Russian hats until I could count no more. If a bird 

235 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

still lived in that forest, it did not sing; only the 
black winged birds with the gray bellies of carrion 
were there, hovering cautiously above the trees with 
weird instinct that a grewsome feast was near. As 
we left the great green forest, and rushed the grade to- 
ward the bridge over the canal made by the German 
engineers, we suddenly stopped and our red haired 
boy of a mechanician got out and lifted a dark ob- 
ject which barred the way and which had not been 
there when we crossed the bridge before. I saw him 
dragging at a German soldier whose feet grotesquely 
bobbed against the boards, and he was careful, the 
red haired boy, to lay the soldier at the extreme edge 
of the bridge, as if to make certain that no wagon 
would pass over him; he was very careful of that, 
was the red haired boy. But when he was through 
I saw that the soldier's head dangled over the bridge 
as though needing but a push to flop into the muddy 
canal below. . . . 

The Battle 

We had left the forest, where the rifles croaked and 
chugged again between the pale blue houses of Au- 
gustowo. 

^^ Chausee nach Raygrodf " cried the Rittmeister 
to the sentry by the Kommandant office. 

'^ Links gehen! ^^ was the reply. 

" We must go toward Raygrod if you would visit 
with the battery/' explained Tzschirner. "Perhaps 
the road will not be good, all the way. I hope, yes." 

236 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

From east and south rolled the thunder of the 
guns and across the street from a muddy yard that 
was strewn with Eussian dead, I saw five German 
soldiers, picking the caked dirt from their boots and 
singing a song. And as we left behind the last 
squalid house of Augustowo I saw a squad of smiling 
soldiers crowding around a captured Kussian field 
kitchen. But the odor that assailed my nostrils was 
not of steaming food ; in the road nearby lay the car- 
cass of a horse. 

There opened a great grayish plain, serried with 
hastily thrown up trenches, filled with melting snow 
and the lying, the kneeling and the sitting dead; a 
wilderness of sky closed in, grayish like the earth, 
and across it an aeroplane came, the black crosses 
painted beneath its wings, crosses of death — for 
would not the bombs fall? — and it cackled away, the 
bird of destruction toward the eastern sky. Through 
Naddamki and Koszielny, into a brief dense forest, 
and we drove toward Bauszcke to the growing clamor 
of the guns. 

"It is better,^' said Tzschirner, " that we leave our 
auto in Bauszcke and proceed on foot. To Tayno we 
must journey five kilometers. It grows dangerous 
and the auto might be observed by the Russians." 

Leaving the car on the highway to Raygrod — Sey- 
ring, the red haired mechanician begging in vain to 
be allowed to come — we tramped through the snow 
and mud of a narrow Russian road toward Tayno. 

" I must tell you," was Tzschirner's note of warn- 
ing, "this is very dangerous. The Russians no 

237 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

longer have any orders. They are everywhere, little 
bodies cut off from their commands and trying to es- 
cape. You must remember there exists no line like 
the West here. Everything is movement." 

Still the only Kussians we had seen were dead or 
prisoners, so we went on. Two Uhlans passed at a 
trot, turning from right to left with alert eyes. 

^' 1st der weg freif ^^ called Tzschirner. 

^^ Jawohl. Alles ruhig!'^ 

Satisfied, the Eittmeister thought we could go on. 
The grumble of the guns became clearer; a grenat 
burst not half a mile away, emitting its terrifying 
grinding yelp, and staining the air with an ugly 
spume of brownish smoke. The road turned, skirt- 
ing a pond, the Drengstwo See, beyond it a grove 
of pines above which shrapnel was breaking in beauti- 
ful billowing clouds. And then just ahead, reverber- 
ating in a bowl in the rolling ground, I heard four 
crashing reports, first two, then two more ; and wisps 
of grayish smoke rose in the air and as quickly 
thinned away. Hurrying up the road and into the 
hollow, we joined the battery. Four 10.5 field pieces, 
set in pairs with thirty feet between, the battery was 
shelling a Russian position on the Bobr. Moving 
with a feverish ordered haste, the black striped gun- 
ners drew the empty copper jackets of the shrapnel, 
returned each to its oiled cloth case, and glancing 
toward an officer who was kneeling beside a tree, 
seemed waiting for something. I saw that the officer 
had a telephone clamped over his ear, and then two 
slender wires, which led from this to another tree, 

238 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

festooned from one to the other like the tendrils of 
a vine. He was furiously scribbling in a despatch 
book that rested on his knee and once he looked up 
to fling some words to the orderly standing by. What- 
ever they were, these words seemed to fire the orderly 
with a purpose, for, leaping toward the battery, he 
called: ^^ Bischen rechts. Yierzig metres tie- 
fer! '' 

For this information the impatient gunners seemed 
to be waiting. At once they broke into the same 
feverish motions at the guns, setting the hand on the 
shrapnel clock, so the burst would come ^^ Verzig 
metres tiefer^^ — or forty meters further on — then 
the breeches snapped shut, and I saw them clap their 
hands to their ears — just as I had seen the boyish 
gunners of the 7.7s do in the West — while in salvos 
the guns roared and a multitude of specks filled the 
air, and there came back to us the loose rattling 
sounds of four shells, getting under way on their trip 
to the enemy's lines. In the unreal stillness that fol- 
lowed, I heard the telephone buzz and drone. 
^^ Schon! ^^ called the officer to his battery. ^' Viele 
Russlanders tot! '' 

" Do they get back the results so quickly? " I asked 
Tzschirner. " How is it possible? " 

" You would wish to see? " he asked. " I shall 
try.'' 

He said something to the officer, who immediately 
telephoned something to whoever was at the end of 
the line. After a brief conference Tzschirner saluted 
the officer and came to us with a smile. 

239 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WAJIRING GERMANY 

" We shall go now. We can see the battle — if you 
should like/' 

What a wonderful little officer he was ! — a Miracle 
Man, who now was granting the one great desire. 
"What luck ! '' I was saying, " a battle I " 

With his pistol drawn — for, "were we to meet 
Eussians, they would not know who you were and I 
should have to protect you,^^ — Kittmeister Tzschirner 
followed the telephone wires, along the edge of the 
woods until skirting a frozen reed grown pond, he 
moved cautiously into the forest, pausing every few 
strides to listen, while the feeling came upon me that 
I was utterly hollow and my throat was dry as a 
board. Once we saw tracks in the snow, a wet red 
stain and a sleeve of a Kussian army coat, which 
seemed to have been slashed off; once we heard a 
shrapnel pang behind us on the tops of the trees; 
and then there came no sound to break the crunch 
of our boots in the snow. As we proceeded I began 
to experience a curious sense of security in contrast 
to the passage through the forest that croaked with 
rifles. By the time we came out on a ledge that 
overhung a yellowish frozen swamp, I forgot myself 
in the interest of the drama before me. As we gazed 
across the kilometers of the Netta swamp toward 
where the Bobr lay among the weeds, a monstrous 
smoking serpent, the shrapnel puffed like the clouds 
of June, drifting with serene white beauty, while 
those who had stood near, lay stricken below. . . . 

I heard Tzschirner call to some one. From the 

240 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

great pine at our back there came an answer in Ger- 
man. 

" You may go into the observing post," said Tzschir- 
ner. " Do you wish? '' 

And I climbed up a ladder that had been nailed 
on the pine and squeezed my way up through the floor 
of a little house, hidden amid the boughs of the tree; 
and there I found the captain of the battery, crouch- 
ing, for the pine thatched house was tiny, and staring 
with his glasses through a hole in the wall. 

'' Come in,'' he said pleasantly, without looking 
around. " You will not find it comfortable, I fear. 
Will you excuse me, please, a moment? It is impor- 
tant. I must see." 

While he made his observation, I noticed that a 
field telephone was strapped to his head and that a 
writing tablet covered with figures dangled from his 
belt. I watched him lower the glasses and speak 
quickly into the phone. " Pardon me," he said when 
he had finished talking, "it was very necessary." 

And then he went on to explain that his battery 
was doing great damage to the Eussians now ; that the 
shrapnel was breaking over their trenches. 

" You would like to see? " he said, unstrapping his 
binoculars. 

And now I was looking upon the battle. I saw on 
the edges of the great swamp two villages in flames. 
I located the German columns issuing from the south 
Augustowo woods and breaking into extended order, 
spread across the snow toward Mogilnice, a multitude 

241 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

of creeping specks of brown; and toward the south, 
out of Grezedy, they seemed suddenly to spring up 
from the earth, as if a Cadmus had sown them, and 
roll in a cloud toward a point beyond the yellow 
weeds, where now all the shrapnel seemed bursting, 
as if by fantastic intent, making beautiful the sky 
with the fleecy clouds that brought death. And in 
the din of it all, I heard now the harsh pecking of 
machine guns, and that which had been a rolling gray- 
green mass of men became jagged and wavering; and 
then as suddenly the earth gave up another armed 
harvest, and the wavering mass of men was caught 
up in this and hurled forward. Suddenly for the 
first time that day the sun streaked through the 
greasy clouds, and the bayonets flashed it back. Was 
that roar a cheer? As the gray -green mass rolled 
on, and there came a mad clamor as if all the machine 
guns were pecking away at once. Then it was as if 
the mass, swept over like a mighty inundation, for 
you could hear their volleys no more — only the shrap- 
nel, which seemed suddenly to have lengthened its 
range, panged ever more faintly away, wreathing a 
covert where fugitives might flee in a halo of pure 
smoke. 

I felt my arms growing tired. The officer looked 
patient. I thanked him and climbed to the ground. 
Tzschirner, too, looked patient. 

" I thought you would remain there for the night," 
he smiled. 

" Was I long? '^ I asked, surprised. 

" Half an hour," he said. 

242 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

But it is not the battery of 10.5's, not the vil- 
lage in flames, not the death stalking amid the pines, 
not the storm of the Germans near Grezedy, that will 
be my memory of the battle of Augustowo Wald. 
Rather it will be of an old woman — ^^an old woman 
who lives in a little hut on the big farm, to the right 
of the road as you enter Augustowo. As we started 
for the battle I saw this wizened little figure with her 
red shawl wrapped around her head peering from the 
shelter of the door, like a hen thrusting its head from 
a coop. Two hours later, while returning, I looked 
toward the hut again and saw the little woman who 
wore the red shawl. She stood as before, her head 
cautiously peering through the crack of the door, as 
if she feared that her body might present too big a 
mark for the battle fire. As I looked again when our 
motor snorted past, I realized that she stood there 
frozen in terror. At the noise of our coming she 
turned her face to the road and I saw that her mouth 
was open wide — as wide as my hand. 

The Feast of Victory 

As we drove into Suwalki, the muffled rolling of 
the guns followed us through the damp twilight. 
Stopping at the Europiski Hotel, a faded building 
of painted stones, we passed to the clicking of sen- 
tries' heels under a dripping archway, opening into 
a filthy, watery court. One saw bare-legged women, 
yoked with double pails, picking their way between 
the shiny automobiles of the staff, to a typhus menac- 

243 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

ing well beyond. On the right of the archway a 
flight of heavy stone steps ran up to a dingy drinking 
room; a tea room now, since the days of the vodka 
ukase. A greasy proletarian smirked a welcome from 
behind a counter, laden with platters of food, as 
sour as his smile. Excusing himself, Kittmeister 
Tzschirner opened the door to a larger room on the 
right, which we had seen open during the day, but 
always closed after six at night. Taking seats at 
one of the little round topped tables, I watched the 
German officers filing in, taking plates from a high 
stack, and helping themselves from the large platters 
on the counter, always paying the price without com- 
ment and in money, while the greasy proprietor rang 
a merry tune on his cash register, and contemptuous, 
no doubt, that the conquering Germans paid his out- 
rageous prices without protest. I knew the man with 
the smirk was thinking that had the Russians been 
the conquerors they would not have bothered about 
the score. No, not the Russians. They would have 
had his daughters dance for them, and they would 
have eaten their fill in the name of the Czar. To 
give him full measure, they might have beaten him 
with the flats of their swords. Bah, these Germans, 
they were fools ! 

" Excellence von Eichorn," said Tzschirner, return- 
ing, " begs that you be his guest at dinner." 

I could scarcely credit my good fortune. Dinner 
with the Commanding General of the 10th German 
army on the night of his triumph. 

244 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

" We shall eat with Excellence and his staff — in 
celebration of the victory,'' added the Eittmeister. 

This latter was a bit of gentle irony that for the 
moment I missed. I later learned that the room 
which always closed at six, was the dining hall of 
General von Eichorn and his staff. As we passed in 
with Tzschimer, the officers showed a polite curiosity 
and then bent over their food. ^^ Amerikaner ! ^^ I 
heard some one say. Soon I was shaking hands with 
the hero of the battle of Augustowo Wald. A tall 
white haired man, who must have been over sixty^ 
whose face betokened more of the scholar than the 
soldier. The clear twinkling eyes and the fine 
thoughtful forehead, were those of a serene doctor 
of laws who was living out his life among the flowers 
of some pretty university town; and yet his jaw was 
a buttress of steel and his mouth had a way of thin- 
ning in a straight grim line — a strange combination 
of the humanitarian and militant elements. 

" I congratulate your Excellency " (what a feeble 
attempt it was ! ) " upon your wonderful victory." 
Telling me I was very kind, he then by some trick of 
his marvelous personality almost succeeded in mak- 
ing us feel that we, not he, were the heroes of the 
evening. While we were meeting different members 
of his staff, we learned what the Kussian rout was. 
The entire Tenth Army under General Russky had 
been smashed. One hundred thousand men had been 
made prisoners ; eighty thousand wounded, forty thou- 
sand dead, ten thousand fugitives. About three hun- 

245 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

dred and fifty cannons liad been captured, with muni- 
tion and with machine guns, so vast in numbers that 
there had not yet been time to count them. An entire 
army annihilated! The white haired man, who, sit- 
ting at the table at the end of the room, from which 
radiated other tables like those at a banquet, and he 
who was now raising a cup of tea, and smiling about 
him with gentle eyes, he had directed it all^ — the 
smashing of almost a quarter million men — making 
ninety thousand of them captive and killing or wound- 
ing or starving the rest. 

And this was the feast in celebration of victory. 
In English and American newspapers I had read of 
the drunken revels with which the Barbarians made 
the nights of their triumphs more terrible. I had read 
that the first great drive into France fell short of 
Paris, because entire staffs had gone drunk ; and then 
I recalled Rittmeister Tzschirner in extending Von 
Eichorn's invitation had added with genial irony — 
^' in celebration of the victory." 

And this was the feast, stewed hare and fried meat 
cakes, mashed potatoes and rice, all covered with a 
brown gravy and served all in the same big platters, 
a slice of black bread, tea, the sweetened whipped 
white of an eggy and one glass of a cheap Bordeaux 
for each man — that was the menu with which the 
battle of Augustowo Wald was celebrated. 

I was busy at the hare when the Rittmeister said 
to us : 

" Excellence von Eichorn would drink wine with 
you.'' 

246 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

Tzschirner told us afterwards that it was a great 
honor. 

" I know I made a mess of it," I lamented to him. 
"What should I have done?" 

" Oh, no," said the Rittmeister. " You are Amer- 
ican and we do not expect you to understand our mili- 
tary customs," which made me feel a little easier. 

On my left. Captain Kluth, who early in the morn- 
ing would leave for Augustowo to bring back four 
captured Russian generals, spoke English, like an 
American. Kluth, a merry eyed, dark skinned Rhein- 
lander, smiled when he said he was sorry that they 
had no grape juice — and then he did not smile when 
he said : 

" In America, you want peace. You could bring 
about peace if you would stop selling ammunition. 
To-day we captured so much ammunition that Rus- 
sia would be in a bad way for more, were it not for 
America." 

" Did you capture any American ammunition? " I 
asked him. 

" Quantities," he replied, " and the trouble with it 
is that your ammunition is good. It kills more men." 

And then came the champagne, not in honor of Von 
Eichom or the victory, but in honor of the American 
guest. 

" I have," smiled Captain Kluth, " two pints of 
champagne in my room. We shall drink together." 

Knowing that in the Russia of to-day, that next to 
cleanliness wine is the rarest commodity, I begged 
Captain Kluth to keep his treasure hidden; but he 

247 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

would have none of it, and when he returned with the 
bottles he told me their story. 

" When we occupied Suwalki," he said, " I asked 
an old Jew if he knew where there was any cham- 
pagne. He said, no. I gave him two marks and he 
said, yes. From somewhere he produced these two 
pint bottles and wanted twenty marks for them. I 
gave him ten. It's enough for two pints of bad cham- 
pagne, isn't it? " 

In response to a query of mine, a captain of the 
telegraph corps gave me his story of the battle. 

^' This morning," he began, " one of our corps tele- 
graphed here that they were without food. They got 
an answer that the Eussians were in the woods with 
plenty of food. Two hours later they telegraphed 
again. ' We are enjoying our dinner,' was the mes- 
sage." 

" Yes," added Captain Kluth, " and that corps was 
made up of volunteers. The Emperor sent word to 
them that they had battled as well as first line troops." 

Then we talked of many things concerning the 
war, while one by one the officers of the staff, leaving 
the table, bowed and went to the rooms. During this 
unique feast there was frequent laughter at witty 
sallies, but no boisterousness ; and we began to mar- 
vel at the cool, confident, almost commonplace way 
with which the staff was taking the victory. It 
lacked a few minutes of ten when General von 
Eichorn said good night to us and went to his room ; 
and after he had gone we heard something about him, 
that his home was in Frankfort, that his record in 

248 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

maneuvers was one of unbroken success, that the 
outbreak of war had found him ill, and that this was 
his first campaign. And then at a hint from Kitt- 
meister Tzschirner, I begged to be excused. 

" These officers," he whispered, " have had much 
to tire them to-day and must be up very early." 

I nodded. As we rose the officers did also, and the 
soldier cook came in to smile a good-by, and the sol- 
dier waiters passed platters in which each officer 
dropped a few coins. 

" How much? " I asked Tzschirner. 

" One mark eighty pfennigs. But you are not to 
pay." 

And so was celebrated the battle of Augustowo 
Wald, one of the greatest victories of modern his- 
tory, with a dinner that cost one mark eighty pfen- 
nigs a cover, or about forty cents. 

The Strategy of the Battle 

The battle of Augustowo Wald, which resulted in 
the annihilation of an entire Russian army on Feb- 
ruary 21, actually began on February 7, when Field 
Marshal Hindenburg secretly transported troops from 
Poland to East Prussia and new troops, young sol- 
diers who were to get their baptism of fire were 
brought up from inner garrisons. The total rein- 
forcements were five corps. Concentrating around 
Gumbinnen, the Tenth German army, under the com- 
mand of Excellence von Eichorn, awaited the com- 
mand to advance simultaneously with General von 

249 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Buelow's army, which was making its preparations be- 
hind Lyck. Like a country fence, the Russian line zig- 
zagged across East Prussia, south of the Memel, east' 
of Ragnit, to Gumbinnen, wedging forward along the 
line of the Angerapp and back through the Masuren 
lakes to Lyck. Since mid-November the Russians 
had held this line, a third of the rich East Prussian 
farmland behind their crooked fence. And the fence 
must be smashed. 

It was on the ninth of February that General von 
Lowenstein's troops of General von Eichorn's army 
began the battle by making forced marches in the 
snow from Gumbinnen toward Pillkallen and Stallu- 
ponen. All that night snow fell and confident the 
Germans would not attack because they could not 
bring up their artillery, the Russians fell back on 
Eydtkuhnen (East Prussia) and Kibarty and Wir- 
ballen, just across the frontier. Here they ate from 
their field kitchens — something they had been un- 
able to do in twenty-four hours, turned in for a good 
sleep and left the road without outposts. Why bother 
with outposts? The snow was sufficient; the Ger- 
mans could never bring up their cannon on those 
roads. Apparently since the days of Napoleon, Rus- 
sia had believed too foolishly that winter is always 
on its side. 

Not being able to advance with their cannon, the 
Germans came up without it. Unsupported by a sin- 
gle gun, forcing their way through the downpour of 
snow, the German infantry, young soldiers in their 
first battle, swept down on Eydtkuhnen. On the road 

250 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

stood two batteries, totaling twelve howitzers and a 
large number of ammunition wagons. Up to within 
fifty meters of the Eussian batteries the Germans 
were able to advance before being discovered. In a 
panic the Kussians tried with carbine fire to cover 
the retreat of their guns, but storming the position 
the Germans shot down the horses in the traces and 
piling the dead and the living, blocked the road of 
escape. Supported now by the captured cannon, the 
Germans rushed on and there followed a night battle 
in the streets of Eydtkuhnen, back across the fron- 
tier to Russian Kibarty, where ten thousand pris- 
oners were made. By midnight another division of 
Von Eichorn's army, which broke through at Pillkal- 
len, had driven the Russians down into Wirballen, 
where the Russians, again surprised by similar 
forced marches through the snowstorm, fought des- 
perately in the streets and surrendered. 

Three hospital trains, one the Czarina's, another 
Prince Lievin's, were captured in Kibarty, and in 
them General von Lowenstein's staff found unexpect- 
edly comfortable quarters for the night, and stores of 
delicacies like preserves and chocolate. Captured 
cars filled with boots and fur lined vests made the 
soldiers more comfortable, and when they found one 
hundred and ten Russian field kitchens filled with 
warm food, the joy of the young German regiments 
was complete. For two days they had been living on 
knapsack rations. 

Now while this movement was turning the Rus- 
sian flank backward on Wilkowiszky, and at the same 

251 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

time General Lieutenant Boulgakew's 20th Army 
Corps — its communications with the 10th corps cut 
— was retreating pell mell from Goldap to Suwalki, 
two other German movements were developing. 
From north of Ragnit as far as the Baltic and east 
of the line of the Memel, the Russians were being 
driven back across the frontier. This important op- 
eration protected Von Eichorn's flank and allowed 
him to sweep down from the north, enfielding the 
Russians on Suwalki. And with this General von 
Buelow's Sth army had rolled up the Russians at 
Lyck, driving them back on a terrific frontal attack 
to the strongly entrenched line of the Bobr. So they 
battled from February 10th to the 21st, the crum- 
bling Russian right, composed of the entire Army of 
East Prussia, under Russky's command, was hurled 
down from the north against the victorious troops of 
Von Buelow on the south. The flying Russians pour- 
ing out of East Prussia, plunged headlong across the 
snowy open plains, into Suwalki, where they at- 
tempted to make a stand at Suwalki. Fighting as 
they ran down the road to Augustowo, they were met 
by Von Eichorn's army, which had marched from 
Augustowo 120 kilometers through snow in two days. 
Then Von Buelow, coming across from Lyck, made a 
junction with Von Eichorn, and pursued them into 
the forests and frozen swamps — an army of 240,000 
men utterly annihilated, its few remaining corps still 
bravely fighting for seven days in the Augustowo 
Wald until on the day we saw them, the day the rout 

252 



THE BATTLE OF AUGUSTOWO WALD 

was completed, their scattered, hungry remnants laid 
down their arms — sixty thousand men. 

The most important engagement of the war since 
Tannenberg, — the battle of Augustowo Wald will be 
written in history beside the charnel fields of other 
wars. A terrific blow for Russia, for while she can 
lose thousands of those sullen conscripts, she cannot 
stand the loss of 350 cannon and countless machine 
guns, rifles and stores. One hundred and twenty 
thousand Russians dead and wounded lay in the 
snows, while a hundred thousand of their comrades 
shuffled back to Germany under armed guard. 
Whether one looks at it with the cold eyes of the 
strategist or appalled at its horror, one can only think 
of Augustowo in terms of Waterloo, Gettysburg or 
Sedan. 



253 



XII 

THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

IN the East, the war is different. With Hinden- 
burg's army against the Russians, I saw a kind of 
warfare utterly different from the solid lines of the 
West. To portray to the most minute detail what is 
daily transpiring there, I wrote down all the impres- 
sions gained in a single day and night. It was near 
Tauroggen, a stricken village across the Russian fron- 
tier that I saw this war of the East; it was at 
Tauroggen that Prince Joachim, the youngest of the 
Emperor's sons, led the Germans in the storm. 
The diary follows: 

11 :50 A. M., Tilsit — We have slept late, for we 
came to Tilsit in the small hours, a weary ride across 
the snow swept plains from Suwalki. Back there in 
the pine woods of Augustowo, Von Eichorn's young 
troops are hammering away at the new army that 
the Grand Duke has rushed to brace the crumbling 
front. But we have seen the fighting there, and this 
morning Rittmeister Tzschirner has promised to show 
me the war in the north, where the Memel line is pro- 
tecting Von Eichorn's northern flank. 

" We shall journey to one of our outposts in Rus- 

254 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

sia," proposes Tzschirner, and his eyes light hopefully. 
" There may be fighting there." 

Our motor goes barking through the pretty streets 
of Tilsit, which, by two hours' fighting in the fall, the 
German soldiers saved from the Eussian torch. We 
cross the winding Memel, where a century ago Na- 
poleon and the Czar met on a canopied pontoon to 
sign the Peace of Tilsit, while the hills behind us 
at Engelsberg bristled with the cannon of France; 
we cross vast river-plains shimmering with snow and 
mount to the pine fringed hills beyond, where now 
are strewn the soldiers of another Czar, who thought 
to march the road to Berlin; and chugging along a 
wayside strewn with their smashed entanglements, 
we come to Piculponen. Across the silent stretches 
of snow there comes the clear scattering cracks of car- 
bines. 

" A Russian patrol ! " remarks Tzschirner, and he 
unbuttons his holster, while our red haired mechani- 
cian removes the caps from the rifles. " One can 
never tell," continues Tzschirner, " down which road 
their patrols may ride." 

This puzzles me. " But how can they get through 
the German lines? " I asked him. 

" There is no line, as in the West. We have driven 
the Russians from East Prussia, but there are many 
roads down which their patrols can sneak from a 
frontier village and run back to the troops." 

" Could they come down this road? " I asked. 

" We hold it to Tauroggen, where we must go, but 
we have no trenches from Tauroggen to Woynuta, and 

255 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

between these points are cross roads by which they 
could raid this highway. But if those shots we heard 
were Cossacks, I do not think they will come here. 
They are not brave, the Cossacks.'' 

We see that beyond, to the left, an old brick church 
hides among the pines. 

*^ We shall go there," suggests the Eittmeister. 
" Do you wish? '' 

I am wondering why we should waste time on a 
church when Eussian patrols are shooting up the 
countryside, when Tzschirner says: 

" This church is where Queen Louise of Prussia 
took refuge from Napoleon in 1807." 

With the dutiful air that one assumes upon exam- 
ining an historical landmark, we scramble up the 
bank toward the church. 

" Walk slowly," the Eittmeister said, as we picked 
our way through a snow covered graveyard, " or you 
may not see and kick a grenat. They explode very 
easily." 

At once we cease thinking of the church of Picul- 
ponen as Queen Louise's retreat. We are walking 
amid a charnel patch of opened graves and tombs 
that are the gaping craters of shells. 

" The Eussians tried to hold a position here," re- 
marks Tzschirner. 

We turn the corner of the church and see the Eus- 
sian trenches dug between the graves. We see the 
great windowed walls shattered with shrapnel and 
shell. We gaze down into an awful hole where a 
grenat has plunged into a grave. The fragments of 

256 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

the casket are blown into the black mud, and there are 
other fragments too, fragments a chalky white, for 
the grave is old; and fragments of brown Russian 
coats. Nearby stands a white marble cross. "^ Ruhig 
sanft/^ it says, " Rest in Peace." The plains of the 
Memel, as we leave the churchyard, brooding in the 
white peace of the snow and under the Engelsberg lies 
Tilsit, vaguely as in a mirage, its slender steepleH 
churches, the spires of a dream. 

1 :08 P. M. We are climbing a long brown slope of 
road that has been dug from out of the drifting snow. 
A kilometer from Piculponen we turn out to pass a 
clanking column of gray transports, plodding on to- 
ward the front. Noticing a wagon loaded with barbed 
wire, I said to Tzschirner : " What will you do, make 
this position at Tauroggen permanent? The entan- 
glements are going up.'' 

" Ah, yes, for a time. It is best always to be pre- 
pared," and he smiles. 

In this clear, cold air our exhaust is barking in loud 
exaggeration, but as we crest the hill near the hud- 
dled houses of Kamstpauriken, we hear a foreign 
sound. Somewhere across the snows rifles are fir- 
ing. 

" The Russian patrols are very active this morn- 
ing," Tzschirner is saying. 

'^ How far off is that shooting? " I ask. 

" About a mile. On a road which is parallel to 
this." 

" How many in a patrol? " I was thinking that 

257 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

we were five — Gelbricke, who must drive the car; 
Seyring, the red-haired mechanician, who could use a 
carbine; Tzschirner, with his Browning automatic; 
Corey, with a fountain pen, and I with a camera. 

" They are very many, the Eussians," Tzschirner 
was saying. '^ They never ride a patrol under twenty 
men. It is dangerous," continues Tzschirner with 
the air of one doing his duty by saying that, although 
I knew he was spoiling for a scrap. 

"We may be surrounded; but I do not think. 
Naturlichy there is the chance. You wish? " 

" Eittmeister, these Eussians would have to use the 
road and we could see them coming in time." 

" Oh, no," Tzschirner says quickly. " They often 
ride over the fields; it is very good for patrol, the 
country here." 

" What grand little comforter," I murmur. 

Tzschirner looks around and grins. " I will pro- 
tect you." 

I feel he has been quietly laughing at me, until 
from behind a distant snow capped ridge I see a black 
belch of smoke. 

" They have burned a village," exclaims Tzschirner. 

Together we run through the snow in the direction 
of the smoke, until a hillock gives us a vantage point 
of the surrounding country. We can see the flames 
now, streaking through the smoke and above the 
snowy hills, black clouds stain the cold blue sky. 

*^ Eemain here," calls Tzschirner, who is fumbling 
with his map. " It is little more than a kilometer 

258 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

from here to the village/' And while he studies his 
map I watch the flames through my binoculars. 

" That is the village of Robkojen," he presently an- 
nounces. " See," and he points to it on the Staff map, 
where even the little summit upon which we stand is 
marked. 

The glasses bring to me a huddle of cottages in 
flames. It reminds me of a moving picture I have 
seen — a Western picture with tiny horsemen on a 
distant ribbon of road. I can see the Russians ; their 
uniforms are different from the brown coated droves 
I have seen. They are dark uniforms and the horse- 
men wear tall dark hats. Tzschirner has put his 
glasses on them. " Cossacks," he mutters. " Soon 
our men will be there." 

Taking the hint, I swing the glasses down the road, 
that twists like a black swing through the snow to 
Robkojen. And even then I can discern a tiny move- 
ment. It grows to a rush of horses. " They are 
coming I " 

The finish of a Derby has not this thrill. Can the 
Germans come up fast enough? Through the smoke 
I can see a sudden panic. Between two flaming cot- 
tages a horse is pivoting; one seems to be rearing. 
The Germans are drawing nearer. " They are 
Uhlans ! " And then as in a stampede there breaks 
from behind the smoking village a line of horses that 
go galloping in black silhouette across the snow. The 
Uhlans are taking up the pursuit. 

Tzschirner's air is one of intense disgust. 

259 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" I say, you the Cossacks would not fight. They 
ended their fighting when they burned the village. 
They always sneak across the frontier, burn the homes 
of a few poor people, terrify old men, women and their 
children by killing a few, and then running like 
dogs." 

" Do they always run, Rittmeister? " 

^^ ImmeVy unless they are greater than our cavalry 
by six to one," with a sneer, he adds. " I think Rus- 
sia needs them best for murdering the Jews." 

Behind us the dried cottages are flaming like tinder 
and across the fields from Robkojen a woman, her 
arms filled with bundles, and leading a child, sinks 
almost to her knees in the snow. It seems as if she 
has fled a hell of fire to gain an empty world. 

1 :45 P. M. " Only a few days ago the Russians ran 
down this road, taking their dead with them." 

We have caught up with the awful refuse of battle. 
Near Szillutten we see that which no longer horrifies 
— the slain dead; and then the bloody road of re- 
treat, where German shells split the Russian ranks, 
and lumped the road with things in brown that only 
the wheels of the heavy guns can flatten down ; a fur- 
rowing of frozen ruts, shining with the pounding of 
transports, the packed snow broken, here and there, 
to reveal stiff objects, bits of brown cloth matted with 
flesh. 

Burned Laugszargen shows its black walls, and as 
we cross the frontier we see the red and black striped 
white posts lying shattered in a ditch beside. And 

260 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

it seems a symbol of these days when frontiers seem 
but things to be smashed. We are passing through 
Posheruni, the silent houses echoing back our motor 
in a hollow, dismal sound. 

We enter a woods, the tall pines crowding close to 
the road ; and it seems as though the road has been the 
path of a storm, as if lightning has struck one upon 
another of the trees here, for torn white they seem to 
have fallen into each other's branches, leaning like 
stricken things, while finding those whom they sought, 
the shells have daubed them red and flung up bits 
of torn cloth into their shattered boughs, there to 
hang, perhaps, as a signal that the black winged birds 
might see. And passing through the forest of death, 
we come upon a German battery, hidden behind 
mounds of clay that are covered with evergreen. The 
soldiers are fussing about the long, gray barrels. And 
we have not gone half a kilometer further, when we 
smile at the guile of this German army; for there in 
a field to the right of the road is a dummy battery. 
We count four black logs lying between four sets of 
farm cartwheels, and each with its little circular 
shield of earth — a shield deliberately built low, 
though, so that from afar the Eussian observer would 
not fail to see what seemed to be a gun ; and signaling 
his batteries waste thereafter the ammunition. The 
road slopes down toward the sunken stream of the 
Eserina. The burned bridge lifts its skeleton posts 
in a warning. We get out and see that the German 
engineers have bent the road to the right, leading it 
down over a bed of wire-lashed saplings, across a 

261 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

string of planks, and thence up over more dirt-cov- 
ered saplings to the main road again. 

" It is better/' suggests Tzschirner, " that we leave 
the auto.'' And as the motor bounces over the lashed 
saplings and takes the bridge, a company hurrying 
to Tauroggen comes swinging on its heels ; for we are 
getting into Kussia now, and near the line of battle, 
and there can be no delay. We hurry after the car. 

" Please, that bridge," and Tzschirner indicates the 
charred piles ; *' it saved the Eussians. By burning 
it, they delayed our advance an hour." 

" Your engineers changed the course of the road, 
bending it around that burning bridge, in one hour? " 

" Oh, yes," and Tzschirner is almost apologetic ; 
" our pioneers would have finished the work in much 
less than an hour, but the Russians fired on them with 
shrapnel," and then as if remarking the weather, he 
added, " Fifteen were killed." 

The car chugs on. A great blue bulbed cupola 
shows above the trees and we rattle across the Jura. 

" The Russians tried to destroy this bridge, too," 
Tzschirner is explaining, " but we came too fast for 
them and drove them up into Tauroggen, where they 
endeavored to stand." . . . Our motor is panting up 
the hill past the Russian church and turns into the 
village of Tauroggen. 

" We put the artillery on them," continues Tzschir- 
ner, and we pass rows of narrow, squalid houses, 
chipped with shrapnel, " and they took Tauroggen by 
storm. There was street fighting and then, picking 
up their dead, they ran with them through the village, 

262 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

across the field to the woods,'' and Tzschirner waves 
his hand down the road toward a patch of pines, 
" and they're in the woods now." 

We turn into a muddy street where the fighting 
must have been hot, for the way is littered with car- 
tridge belts and guns and on a pale blue picket fence 
Eussian accouterments dangle like unclean things 
hung out in the sun. 

" If you will excuse me," says the Rittmeister, ^' I 
shall speak with Ober-Lieutenant Hoffman." 

We find Ober-Lieutenant Hoffman quartered in a 
clean looking hut, distinguished by a shingle, hand- 
lettered with that official looking KOMMANDO. 
After he has conversed with the Ober-Lieutenant, 
Tzschirner brings him into the motor and we drive 
through Tauroggen in the direction the Russians have 
fled. We have put the last outlying house behind us 
and at a suggestion from Ober-Lieutenant Hoffman 
the motor is stopped. " It is better," explains 
Tzschirner, " that the auto remain here. It gives too 
large a target." 

With a strange feeling, almost of superiority, for 
not thirty feet ahead, what appears to be a first line 
trench is filled with soldiers, we walk towards them 
down the road. Over there, a quarter of a mile, 
across the barren field where the Russians dragged 
their dead, are the woods, and skulking there are the 
Russians — the soldiers maintain a nervous vigil. 
Not a sound breaks the strain, only the clatter of axes, 
as far to the right the soldiers are clearing a zone for 
the enfilading fire of the machine guns. And as we 

263 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

walk past the trench and approach the last outpost 
this tension is communicated to us. We walk through 
the barricade — a ladder tangled with wire, that 
slides between two broken carts on either side of the 
road. We scarcely notice the two sentries who walk 
twenty paces from the barricade toward the woods, 
wheel and return. We are watching the woods — 
that great green semicircle across the field where the 
Kussians are hiding. 

Apparently that thought never occurs to Tzschir- 
ner. Being a good soldier, he does not indulge his 
imagination when he is in uniform. He and Ober- 
Lieutenant Hoffman are walking along, chatting 
easily as they might on some fine February day along 
the Linden. As the sentries stride by I catch the 
words, ^^ Wagner ist mehr wichtig/^ and a little ex- 
cited, the sentry with the beard cries: ^^ Quatch! 
Strauss ist wunderhar!'' Apparently to decide the 
merits of Wagner and Strauss is more absorbing than 
the Russians. 

A little bewildered, I walk on. Down where the 
road divides the woods into a limitless vista of green, 
I think I see something move. It is about 600 meters 
away and I focus my glass. Four Russian soldiers 
sitting on a log, a little fire, and in the middle of the 
road something that, while indistinguishable, sug- 
gests a menace. And even as I watch I see a tree 
sway and I can hear it fall as it crashes across the 
road, falling like a barricade. 

" Look ! Look ! The Russians ! " 

264 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

And the Rittmeister turns with an amused smile. 
How commonplace are the Russians, anyway ! How 
incidental to those officers who have seen so many 
dead that even the living are not to be feared. 

" In the middle of the road," I announced, " there 
is a machine gun. It is pointed this way." 

Tzschirner and Ober-Lieutenant Hoffman are dis- 
cussing some military problem. Tzschirner begins to 
trace in the road with his sword some formation that 
is beyond my pen. 

" Those Russians," I am saying without putting 
down the glasses, " appear to be leaving their seats 
on the log. I think they are showing sudden interest 
in the gun." 

Demonstrating his problem in the mud, Tzschirner 
turns to me, 

" This is the road to Riga. Follow it and we reach 
that fortress. As we are now midway between the 
German and Russian lines, I do not think it wise that 
we go further. Of course, if you would care to storm 
the Russians in the woods, we shall go on. Do you 
wish?" 

I do not wish. Nervy little Tzschirner, one of the 
gamest men to straddle a horse in this war, has taken 
us quite far enough. We begin our walk back to the 
German lines, turning our backs with difficulty upon 
those silent woods. 

" If the Russians should fire," Tzschirner says seri- 
ously, "throw yourself at once on the road. The 
balls will pass over you." 

265 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

A simple remedy, indeed ! 

" Strauss/' the passing sentry is objecting, " is all 
chaos." 

" Why not? '' his bearded comrade defends. " Sa- 
lome is the music of destruction.'' 

Glancing back toward the woods, I see a flock of 
black birds fly leisurely across the field, and alight- 
ing, wait. Wait for what? Had the Ober-Lieutenant 
told them that darkness would bring the Kussian at- 
tack? 

"And now, if you like, we shall go to my quar- 
ters," says the Ober-Lieutenant, to whom Tzschirner 
has deliyered me. " I am sorry you will not find 
them very comfortable." 

It is as ever, the diffidence of these Prussian offi- 
cers, putting you a little ill at ease. Self-consciously 
assuring the Ober-Lieutenant that to be comfortable is 
my last desire, we walk down a lane of the bluish 
walled cottages, turning in at the frame structure 
which is denoted headquarters. As we enter a rather 
barren room, three orderlies, who appear to be tran- 
scribing reports, briefly stiffen in their chairs and go 
on writing. The gray, iron-bound officers' chest by 
the window makes a good seat and the Ober-Lieuten- 
ant in telling me that having had conscience, many of 
the natives of Tauroggen fled with the coming of the 
Germans, leaving their loot behind. 

" Loot ! " I interrupted. " I do not understand." 

" Pardon me, but I forgot," and the Ober-Lieutenant 
called an orderly. " Here in Tauroggen," he said 
after consulting the report, " we recovered household 

266 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

belonging to the German frontier villages of Laugs- 
zargen, Meddiglauken and Augswilken.'- 

" No matter how fast his flight/' I observe, " the 
Kussian soldier still has time to transport his loot." 

The Ober-Lieutenant smiles. " But in this time it 
was not the soldiers. We have learned that the civil- 
ians of Tauroggen followed the Russian soldiers 
across the frontier, stealing from houses, and then 
sneaking back with their booty to Tauroggen." 

Clicking his heels in a salute a young lieutenant 
comes in. He and the Ober-Lieutenant begin speak- 
ing; such hurried German is too much for me. I 
note the monocle the young lieutenant is wearing. 
What affectation on the firing line! Clicking his 
heels to the Lieutenant, bowing to me, the young lieu- 
tenant hurries out. The Ober-Lieutenant is drum- 
ming his fingers on the table top. 

" Ober-Lieutenant," I remark with a smile, " will 
that young lieutenant wear his monocle if there's a 
battle?" 

The Ober-Lieutenant's gravity dispels a jest. " I 
imagine he will always wear that monocle," he says. 
" The Lieutenant had his eye shot out in Belgium." 
He reaches for a map. " Please pardon me," he 
smiles. Quite distinctly now I can hear the shots. 

" I had hoped," says the Ober-Lieutenant, studying 
the greenish black dotted patch that means on his 
map, the woods, " that there would be no engagement 
here until to-morrow. I wanted to finish our en- 
tanglements to-day." 

I wonder if our going past the outposts has brought 

267 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERIS NY 

forth the Russians' nervous fire. That seems also to 
have occurred to the Ober-Lieutenant. 

" They might have thought that we were recon- 
noitering for a night attack/' and then abruptly, 
" Let us go out." 

As we pass between the houses a bullet goes snag- 
gering off a roof. It would seem to be a last wild 
shot for as we turn up the road to the outpost^ every- 
thing is still. In the little cemetery to the left of 
the barricade, I see soldiers, squatting behind the 
tombstones; the great wooden cross suggests an in- 
congruous peace. Calling the sentries who but a time 
ago, we heard discussing Wagner and Strauss, the 
Ober-Lieutenant taxes them with questions. They 
salute aind hurry behind the cart, which they have 
turned blocking the road. " Any wounded? '' calls 
the Ober-lieutenant down the trench. 

'^ 'Nwr RussloMders! '' The soldiers laugh and slip 
fresh clips into their guns. 

^^ Alles ruMg/' the Ober-Lieutenant is saying as we 
walk along the line, apparently scornful of the Rus- 
sians that the pines will not let him see. " Only 
nervousness, that shooting." 

" You do not believe there will be an attack? " 

He shakes his head. " I think not." 

But across the belt to the woods, I see the black 
winged birds, slowly flying and waddling over the 
ground. 

7 :30 p. M. During dinner the Ober-Lieutenant has 
avoided all shop talk. No such food as in the West, 

268 



, THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

here — just a stew of white beans and beef and thick 
bread, carved off a big black loaf. The thoughtful 
looking Colonel produces a flask of cognac, and we 
are finishing with cigarettes, when an under officer 
reports. 

" Both lights are in position,'' I heard the Colonel 
say and dismissing the under officer, he seems ab- 
sorbed in the end of his cigarette. In this barren 
room, where the candles are scattering strange 
shadows on the unpainted walls you become conscious 
of an unspoken army. The Ober-Lieutenant who is 
talking Nietzsche with me; seems not to have his 
mind upon it; when appealed to, the Colonel joins in 
with monosyllables. The orderlies who this after- 
noon were making reports, are gone but in the corner 
by the window, a soldier sits with a field telephone in 
his lap ; slowly he writes upon a pad. 

" In America,'' the Ober-Lieutenant is saying, " you 
have taken too seriously our academic thinkers. 
Will you believe it, that until we heard about the book 
from England, not a thousand of my countrymen 
had read Bernhardi. Suppose we were to judge 
America by some of the things published there? " 

I can see his point. A mad buzz from the tele- 
phone jerks us up with a start. With the air, of 
something expected, fulfilled, the Colonel rubs the 
fire off his cigarettes. 

" What is it? " he calls. 

The soldier's manner is decisive. " Patrols report 
men massing from the woods in the road." 

Gulping down the cognac, the Colonel gives a de- 

269 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

tailed order ; the soldier telephones it to some one at 
the outpost. The Ober-Lieutenant looks inquiring. 
" You would like to see? " he asks. As we hurry out 
of the room, a soldier with a rifle, runs down the 
street. It is dark. The low roofed houses are 
smothered in a thickening loom of woods and sky. 
In a window a candle burns but to the end of the 
street it is dark. The door of the last house is open 
and I hear a mumbling monotone of prayer. The 
flash of a pocket torch shows an ancient Hebrew 
kneeling in the open door. From his shoulders hang 
a brown vestment of prayer and caught full, his patri- 
archal, wrinkled face seems almost divine in the halo 
of the torch. On the heavy air a rifle cracks. 

We are running forward. From the woods come 
a scattered sound, as of monstrous frogs croaking in 
the night; a bullet sucks in a whistle as it passes by. 
To the left of the road, behind the little cemetery, is 
a hut where we will be reasonably safe. Leaving the 
road and running along the edge of the trees, so as to 
keep the hut between us and the direct fire we press 
on. I never knew the sound of bullets could so aid 
one's speed. ... 

The firing has become general now and as we peer 
around the edges of the hut ahead and to our right, 
I can hear the soldiers moving in the trench. It is 
too dark to see much. Nearby I can discern crouched 
shadows running through the night and above the 
place of graves, the great brown cross makes its stiff 
gesture of peace. 

Where are the Russians? Way down among the 

270 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

trees, I see the occasional flashes of their fire. But 
this is only an exchange of shots. The Germans are 
not bothering to reply, only with spasmodic shots, I 
think of the black winged birds ; has the noise fright- 
ened them away? 

Still there is a tension that seems to be tightening. 
Down in the trench I see the flash of an officer's 
lamp; it is like a firefly. Other fireflies, glimmer to- 
ward the right of the line, flashing and going out. 
Somewhere in the darkness a young voice laughs 
nervously. 

Where are the Eussians? They may be crossing 
the open field for from the woods the shots no longer 
come. Everything is silent, everything but the or- 
ders that are being given in hushed but distinct tones 
— almost you think, as though the damp wind might 
pick up some secret and bear it to the Kussian hordes. 
Where are they? This silence seems interminable. 

And then one hears the faint scuffling of their feet ; 
and out of the silence of the night comes a roar as of 
animals let loose, and across the fields we can see a 
vague moving mass. They are firing now but they 
are making as much noise with their voices as with 
their guns. To hoarse throaty yells they storm up 
the road. It occurs to me that they are like the 
Chinese whose idea of war is making a noise. Their 
bullets are raining through the pines and falling like 
hail on the houses beyond. 

" Why don't your men open fire? " 

" It is too soon," whispers the Ober-Lieutenant. 
Why did he have to whisper? 

271 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

And then I see the Eussians. I see them in the 
great blinding flash of dusty light. I see them re- 
vealed as pausing, blinking things, to whom the 
searchlights point with fingers of pitiless white. I 
see them — while all about me becomes the clamor of 
guns — stumble and fall; they stagger and crawl as 
if the long dusty flashes were lightning, striking them 
down; and wherever the white fingers point, there 
death comes; and their hoarse throaty shouts, be- 
come the wails of death; and that open belt between 
the pines becomes lumpy with men, while the night 
grows horrid with the rattle of rifles and the quick 
croaking beat of the guns. 

They are being slaughtered out there; they are as 
bewildered as animals, blinking, then dying, in the 
glare of the lights that they knew not could come. 
And now the lights are throwing their dusty glimmer 
on the distant trees. 

" They are retreating ! " The Ober-Lieutenant still 
talks in a whisper. 

And, as sweeping this way and that, making their 
monstrous gestures over the moaning field, the search- 
lights hold up as targets the scattering Russian re- 
treat; as one after another shadowy form I see cross 
a beam of light only to fall, and the crash of the 
rifles seems to have become an unceasing din and in 
the sweeping flashes of white I see the piles upon the 
field. 

The Ober-Lieutenant gives his opinion of it. " Very 
fine,'' he says. " There are many dead." And then, 
as if after all, this were the important thing, he adds : 

272 



THE WAR ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

" To-morrow, I think we can build our entangle- 
ments." 

7 :00 A. M. I have slept little. All night I 
thought I heard groans from afar. Toward dawn I 
imagine I hear a screech, but of course it cannot be 
that. . . . When we take coffee in the candlelight, 
the Colonel seems to have lost the distraction he 
showed at dinner. He laughs and jokes. ... It is 
rapidly growing light when I climb up on the trans- 
port that is to take me to Tilsit. . . . Down over the 
pines, the black winged birds are flying — a screech? 
One wonders. 



273 



XIII 
THE HEEO OF ALL GEKMANY 

Field Mdrshal von Hindenhurg 

1 O the accompaniment of heels clicking in salute 
we passed the Saxonian sentries and hurrying 
through the darkened gateway were met by an or- 
derly. Field Marshal von Hindenburg was expecting 
us. Down the corridors of the castle into a great 
hall into which opened many doors ever opening and 
closing to the passage of hurrying soldier clerks; 
here a telegraph was chattering, there a telephone 
buzzing, messengers coming and going, staff officers 
gliding from one room to another, the warm stuffy 
air vitalized with magic import — this was my first 
impression of the headquarters of the commander in 
chief of the German armies of the East. 

I was looking at a placard written with a pen and 
fastened to one of the unpretentious doors, opening 
into little ante rooms from the great hall, which read 
— " Commander in Chief.'' On the other side of that 
door was the sixty-eight-year-old warrior who has 
become the national hero of Germany. To name the 
town where this took place would be a breach of mili- 
tary etiquette. I am, however, permitted to say that 
the Field Marshal has had his headquarters at Posen, 

274 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

Allenstein, Insterburg, and another place south of 
Insterburg about one hundred and fifty kilometers 
which the officers of General von Eichorn's Tenth 
Army spoke of as " a place unnamed." The reason 
for this secrecy was reflected in " the town." 
Plunged in total darkness, save for a few lanterns, 
it was impossible to locate from the sky. Kussian 
aviators could not steal over it by night and drop 
bombs to kill the man who is so utterly a master of 
the armies that the Czar sends against Germany. 

There came Captain Cammerer, first adjutant of 
Hindenburg, a Prussian officer of artillery, who said 
that the Field Marshal would soon receive us. One 
gleaned that although the Captain appreciated the 
distinction, he longed for the battlefield; one heard 
him talk eagerly of Tannenberg where he had made 
some Russian prisoners. ^^ But now my fingers are 
covered with corns," and Cammerer smiled in a melan- 
choly way. " I have to write much." And then the 
door that bore the sign, " Commander in Chief," 
opened, and the officer bowed us in. Field Marshal 
von Hindenburg had risen to meet us. 

My first impression was that Von Hindenburg's 
pictures have done him an injustice. There is no 
denying that his photographs create the impression 
of a tremendously strong face ruthless almost to the 
point of cruelty. But the camera fails utterly to 
catch the real Hindenburg. His, is a face tremen- 
dously strong, with a chin that is like a buttress and 
a forehead of the width that means power and there 
is a firmness to his little blue eyes; all these things 

275 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

the camera shows. It does not show the twinkle in 
these eyes; nor does it show the kindness that lurks 
in the wrinkles of his warty weather-beaten skin. It 
fails utterly to depict the pleasant smile that his 
small sharply cut mouth can show. Sixty-eight 
years you are thinking in amazement. This man 
does not look more than fifty. All his faculties seem 
at their zenith. His nose is the nose of the eagle and 
it impresses you with wonderful alertness. There is 
much color in his mustache, a tawny shade, a large 
curving but rather peaceful looking mustache that 
has not the aggressive angle of the Emperor's. So 
massive are his shoulders that I thought at first that 
his close cropped gray head was perhaps a little small. 
But it is a typically round German head of the strong 
mold that you see in the pictures of Durer and Hol- 
bein. 

Von Hindenburg impressed me as being a big man, 
physically and mentally big, the embodiment of what 
the conqueror of the Kussian armies should be, 
though I had heard of his suffering with the gout and 
every known ill ; that he was a decrepid invalid who 
was called from a sick bed to save East Prussia. But 
simply dressed in field gray, wearing only the order 
Pour le Merite bestowed upon him by the Emperor for 
his marvelous skill in the Eussian drive, Paul von 
Beneokendorff und Von Hindenburg has the direct- 
ness and simplicity of men of real greatness. He is 
wholly without ostentation, and easier to engage in 
conversation than many a younger officer who only 
sports the second class of the Iron Cross. 

276 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

He eats simply and he works hard. Dinner at 
Von Hindenburg's headquarters consists of soup and 
one course around an undecorated table with ten 
officers. He likes a good wine; when he is drinking 
a toast he takes his glass of champagne at one gulp 
to the despair of some of his younger officers. The 
dinner hour showed him to be very lively. He likes 
stories where the wit is keen ; also he is not a Puritan. 
He avoids talking military matters and seems at 
dinner to have thrown off all responsibilities. This 
light inconsequential converse sounds almost incon- 
gruous when you can hear the ta ta of the horns of 
military automobiles outside. Indeed it is with diffi- 
culty that Von Hindenburg can be induced to say 
anything about the war. His very able assistants, 
the silent Ludendorff, Chief of Generality, and the 
lively gesturing brilliant Hoffman, also avoid talking 
shop. After he has agreed with you that the French 
are fighting bravely, better than one expected them 
to, and that everybody in Germany is sorry for 
them ; after he has urged with exaggerated seriousness 
that the Austrian officers are efficient; after he has 
uttered his contempt of Belgium and echoed the curse 
of the German nation for England, he will discuss 
the Russians. 

" The Russians are good soldiers," he says. " They 
are well disciplined. But there is a difference be- 
tween their discipline and ours. The discipline of 
the German army is the result of education and 
moral. In the Russian army it is the dumb obedience 
of an animal. The Russian soldier stands because 

277 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

he is told to; but lie stands like one transfixed. Na- 
poleon was right when he said *it does not do to 
kill a Russian ; he must also be thrown down/ The 
Russians have learned a good deal since the Japanese 
war. They are very strong in fortifying their posi- 
tions on the battlefield and understand excellently 
how to dig trenches and holes. As soon as they have 
chosen their position they disappear under the ground 
like moles. Our soldiers had to learn how to do that 
too. Our soldiers did not like it. They like to fight 
in the open, to storm and have it over with. But I 
had to make them wait in position until I was ready. 
We are not afraid of the Russian superiority of 
numbers. Russia is vast, but not as dangerous as it 
looks. The modern war is not decided by numbers. 
In East Prussia we have broken two Russian inva- 
sions. Each time they are outnumbered as three to 
one. An army is not a horde of uniformed men. An 
army must have good guns, ammunition, and brains." 

The lively Hoffman, a wonderful strategist, adds, 
"We have absolute confidence in our superiority to 
the Russians. We have to win and therefore we will 
win. It is very simple." 

And the silent Lieutenant General LudendorfP, a 
hero of Li^ge, says shortly, " We will manage it." 

When the dinner is over and it is drawing near to 
eleven o'clock, you get ready to go, for you have heard 
that around midnight Von Hindenburg generally has 
"something to do." It is said that he works hard- 
est at that hour. And as you leave the quiet house, 
it dawns upon you that the little threads of wires 

278 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

leading out from the windows connect with different 
army corps headquarters and that somewhere to the 
east under the Russian night gigantic armies are ad- 
vancing and that the officers with whom you have 
been talking so peacefully, are the leaders of these 
armies and that the thing they are making is called 
The History of the World. 

I have seen the likeness of Hindenburg a thousand 
times. In Houthem, which is a little shell torn village 
where the Bavarians come to from the firing line in 
front of Ypres and get a few days' rest, I saw Von 
Hindenburg's photograph pasted on the window of the 
canteen. I have seen it in every big city in Ger- 
many ; I dare say, it is in most houses. I was in the 
Winter Garden one night when a Berlin crowd went 
mad over an impersonation of the Field Marshal by 
one of the actors. The crowd thumped its beer steins 
on the backs of chairs and got up and cheered. 

An American " movie man " finally induced Von 
Hindenburg to stand before a camera. He did it in 
a way that made you think of the old J. P. Morgan 
who wanted to smash every camera he saw. For 
only a few seconds did Hindenburg walk in front of 
the movie machine but when that picture was 
shown in a Berlin theater the audience broke into 
wild applause. Von Hindenburg is the big man in 
Germany to-day. As a popular idol he rivals the 
Kaiser. The Germans have a new war poem that you 
hear recited in the music halls. It tells of different 
German generals, heroes of the war, and it ends " but 
there is only one Hindenburg." 

279 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Idol of the people, colossus of the battlefield, Von 
Hindenburg goes quietly about his work, unconcerned 
with any of the popular clamor. It is said that one 
of his staff officers was in great indignation because 
a high order of war had been conferred upon a gen- 
eral who had not done any actual fighting or big 
battle-direction in the West. The loyal officer men- 
tioned this to Hindenburg and the old warrior said, 
" I don't care how many orders they give out, so long 
as they let me alone out here." 

His task is to keep Russia from invading Germany. 
It is obviously a huge undertaking. It is a bigger 
job than is held by the head of the great corporation 
in the world. As with all popular figures, writers 
have romanced about Hindenburg. When the corre- 
spondents in Berlin couldn't get out to the front in 
the early part of this war, they made copy out of 
the first idea in sight. So they made a Cincinnatus 
out of Hindenburg. It pleased them to imagine him 
ill at his home, with the gout, when there came a 
special telegram from the Emperor ordering him to 
take charge of the army of East Prussia. They pic- 
tured him getting up from a sick bed, limping on a cane 
to an automobile and saving Germany. When you 
mention this to Hindenburg, he gets so red in the 
face that you think the blood vessels are going to 
burst and when he can speak, he roars, " Do I look 
like a sick man? " 

Graduated from a military academy at sixteen, ap- 
pointed to the infantry as a lieutenant before 1866, 
he fought in the war against Austria. He first came 

280 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

to the attention of the eyes of the German army at 
the Battle of K5niggratz when with fifty of his men 
he charged an Austrian battery. A grape shot grazed 
his skull and he fell stunned. Lifting himself up, 
he saw that his men had gone on and had captured 
two of the Austrian guns. The other three field 
pieces were being dragged away by the Austrians. 
Staggering to his feet, young Von Hindenburg, his 
face streaming with blood, rallied his men and with a 
wave of his sword charged after the fleeing Aus- 
trians. On their heels for more than a mile, he 
finally attacked them, although outnumbered three 
to one, and captured them. For this he was decorated 
with the Red Eagle Order. 

There came the Franco Prussian war. Von Hin- 
denburg was now an Ober-Lieutenant. He came 
through the battles of Gravelotte and Sedan ; he was 
in the siege of Paris and when LeBourget was 
stormed, the young officer led a charge — and they 
gave him the Iron Cross. From that time on his rise 
was rapid. A captain on the General Staff, then 
Major, so up through the grades of the Chief of Staff 
of the Eighth Army Corps to the Commander of 
the Fourth Army Corps to a General of Infantry, 
which high office he held until 1911. 

During the period of his retirement which came in 
1911, he began to study the farm lands of East 
Prussia socketed with the lakes and swamps. This 
was to be the battleground of an inevitable war with 
Russia. He began to study the region until he knew 
every square mile by heart from Konigsberg on the 

281 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

Baltic down through the network of lakes south of 
Tannenberg. On paper he fought there a thousand 
different campaigns. It is said that he became al- 
most fanatical on the subject. In his classes at the 
War Academy where he was an instructor he became 
known as The Old Man of the Swamps. He used to 
go round Berlin with a folder of maps, and any officer 
whom he could buttonhole, he drew him aside and 
talked of the Masurian lakes. He became so ob- 
sessed with this subject that officers fled at his ap- 
proach. They began to call him Swampy Hinden- 
burg. But as he rose in rank and as he commanded 
troops during the maneuvers in East Prussia, the 
General Staff realized that Hindenburg knew the 
country. 

There came a day when Von Hindenburg was ap- 
pointed umpire of a big maneuver in East Prussia. 
The Army of the Red — so the story runs — was com- 
manded by the German Emperor, opposing him was 
the Army of the Blue. The sham battle ended rather 
undecisively. The Emperor and all the lesser gen- 
erals met in the center of the field at the Grosse Kritic 
to hear the criticisms of umpire Von Hindenburg. 
Hindenburg was unmerciful. He tore the reputation 
of the General of the Blues to tatters. He demon- 
strated that this officer had made the grossest 
blunders. For half an hour in unsparing language 
Hindenburg, who had his own ideas about how every 
battle in East Prussia should be fought, criticized 
the General. It occurred to the Emperor that Von 
Hindenburg was concentrating his criticism upon the 

282 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

Army of the Blue and that he had said nothing what- 
ever about the Army of the Eed, which the Kaiser 
himself commanded. The Kaiser asked Von Hinden- 
burg about this, remarking that it was noticeable 
that nothing had been said about his army and add- 
ing that for the benefit of all the officers the Army 
of the Red should also be criticized. Von Hinden- 
burg continued to say nothing about it. Again the 
Emperor asked him. 

" Your Majesty/' Von Hindenburg said bluntly, 
" I deliberately refrained from criticizing your army. 
That is why I took the leader of the Blues so severely 
to task. For if I had been he, with his opportunities, 
I would have driven Your Majesty's troops into the 
Baltic Sea.'' 

The Emperor concealed his displeasure. Presently 
Von Hindenburg was retired. Though retired. Von 
Hindenburg managed to obtain a detachment of 
grumbling troops from Konigsberg and led them 
down into the Masurian swamp region to work out his 
problems. He would insist upon the cannon being 
pulled through the muddiest parts of the lake district 
and when they became mired fast it always seemed to 
please him. After several days he would bring the 
exhausted soldiers and horses and muddy guns back 
to Konigsberg where the officers would tell each other 
that the " old man " was quite mad. 

In those few years Von Hindenburg got the reputa- 
tion for being a bore. All he would talk about was 
the swamps. They even say in Berlin that he would 
pour the blackest of beer on a table top to indicate 

283 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

swamp water, and then would work out a military 
problem during his dinner. Absurd exaggerations 
obviously, but still there must have been some basis 
for it. One day one of those members of the Reichs- 
tag who believe that all a country has to do is to 
make money, proposed that the Masurian lakes be 
filled in, and that the ground be given over to in- 
tensive farming. Von Hindenburg read the news 
that night in Posen and caught a train for Berlin. 
He was in a rage. Fill in his pet lakes and swamps ! 
Unglaublich! Not to be thought of! They say he 
went to see the Emperor about it, that he brought 
with him all his maps and battlelines. 

They say that he told the Emperor that if Masuren- 
land was filled in it would be the greatest military 
crime in the history of the German nation. He did 
not go away until the Emperor promised that the 
swamps should remain. 

Then came the war. The Russians were mobilized. 
They were on the frontier. The Old Man of the 
Swamps offered his services to the Emperor. He was 
a retired general, though. The Emperor had his 
regular generals to the army of East Prussia. There 
was General von Prittwitz, for instance. The Rus- 
sians got into East Prussia. General von Prittwitz 
was soon deposed. Everybody in military Germany 
knows that through the blunders of certain high 
officers the small army that the Germans had in the 
field against Russia early in August was very nearly 
annihilated. I personally know of one atrocious blun- 

284 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

der when a single unsupported cavalry division was 
gent from Insterburg to rescue a Landwehr division 
that was outnumbered eight to one by the Russians. 
The cavalry knew that there was so few that they 
could do nothing. Still the orders were to go and 
they had to go. Such was the campaign of East 
Prussia. 

The Emperor went to Moltke, then his Chief of 
Staff. The Emperor said that the German troops in 
East Prussia were not being handled properly. He 
demanded another general. Moltke named one man 
after another and the Emperor shook his head. 
Moltke was at the end of his list. " Is there no one 
else you can recommend? " asked the Emperor. 

" There is one man, Your Majesty, but, knowing 
your feelings in the matter, I have purposely re- 
frained from mentioning his name." 

" Who is he? " asked the Emperor quickly. 

"Von Hindenburg,'' replied Moltke. 

" It is not to be thought of," declared the Emperor. 

But the Emperor went away to think it over. Like 
a vast tidal wave the Russians were breaking over his 
beloved East Prussia. The Emperor turned it over 
in his mind. There could be no delay. He sent a 
laconic message to Moltke. "Appoint Von Hinden- 
burg." 

So they took Cincinnatus away from the plow. 

" I was not sick in bed," says Von Hindenburg in 
telling about the summons. " I was just sitting at 
the table having coffee when this important telegram 

285 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

came. Ludendorff my Chief of Generality had been 
summoned from Belgium and he came by special 
train/' 

And then began the ride to the East Prussian front 
traveling all the night in one of the high powered 
army automobiles discussing as he went the position 
of the troops. Von Hindenburg and Ludendorff ar- 
rived at the place that had been chosen as headquar- 
ters and he took command of the Army of the East. 
You know what happened, you know how the Kussian 
invasion poured in across East Prussia, past the 
Masurian lakes in a semi-circle from Tilsit south- 
wards. 

You know that Hindenburg elected to give battle 
on a field that was four times as large as Sedan. 
Back of the German line Hindenburg and his staff 
were watching the big maps. Like a great pair of 
tongs his soldiers were closing in from north and 
south. When they had surrounded the Russians, Von 
Hindenburg would order the battle begun, not before. 
Field telephones buzzed, the telegraph clicked, the 
staff officers were ever changing the positions on the 
big maps, the black lines, signifying the German sol- 
diers were ever drawing closer together. Soon the 
Russians would be surrounded. And then an aero- 
plane with black iron crosses painted under its wings 
dropped down out of the clouds and landed in front 
of Hindenburg's headquarters. And its observer 
dashed up to report, " The enemy is surrounded ! '' 

" Begin the battle,^' ordered Hindenburg. 

And over the field telephones went the commands 

286 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

and the awful slaughter of Tannenberg began — that 
battle of which historians will write as one of the 
great conflicts of the world. Back into the lakes and 
swamps that he knew so well, that he had fought so 
hard to save from the Reichstag, Von Hindenburg 
drove the Russians. Whole regiments slowly sank 
in the ooze and disappeared from sight. By regi- 
ments the soldiers of the Czar were driven into the 
soft bottomed lakes and shifting sands of Masuren- 
land. And behind the line, Hindenburg, who knew 
every square mile of that country and knowing the 
topography almost to every tree, could tell the German 
troops exactly what to do. And from his headquar- 
ters the command would go by telephone to the Gen- 
eral in the field. 

I think it will not be until after this war is over 
that the world will know in detail what happened 
at Tannenberg. Von Hindenburg's strategy has 
jealously been hidden by the German General Staff. 
Not a single military attache of a neutral country has 
been able to learn it. All one knows is that the Old 
Man of the Swamps drove the Russians into the 
swamps and that they perished by the thousands. 

All I know of the battle of Tannenberg is this. I 
learned it while at dinner with an officer of Von 
Eichorn's staff. 

" Oh, yes,'' he said quickly, " I was in the battle of 
Tannenberg. Some of our officers went insane. You 
see we drove the Russians back into the swamps and 
as they felt themselves sinking they threw away 
their guns and put up their hands, clutching at the 

287 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

air in their death throes. We were coming up to 
make them prisoners when some of them fired on us. 
So we turned the machine guns on them," he paused. 
" I guess it is better that we did. For they were in 
the swamps and slowly sinking to their death. All 
night you could hear their cries and the horses made 
worse screams than the men. It was terrible. 
Four of my brother ofi&cers went out of their minds 
simply from hearing the shrieks.'' 

An intolerant old warrior who cares not what the 
newspapers say in his praise, who is bored with the 
thousands of letters and presents that are being sent 
him from all parts of Germany, who when this war is 
over has not the slightest desire to become Minister 
of War — Field Marshal von Hindenburg is a mili- 
tary genius with a kind German heart in spite of his 
grim exterior, fond of a glass of good wine and a 
good story, but accomplishing both work and play in 
the fascination of strategical study. 

But what amazed me more than anything else about 
Von Hindenburg is the way he is regarded by of- 
ficial military circles in Germany. I knew that to 
the mass of people and soldiers he is a hero; they 
think him a military genius of almost divine inspira- 
tion. I mentioned this fact one night to a captain in 
the Great General Staff. 

" Oh, yes," he said, " Von Hindenburg is a great 
general. He has had his opportunity. If he were 
killed to-morrow there is another general ready to 
step in and carry on the same work. And if that 
general were to be killed there is still another. I 

288 



THE HERO OF ALL GERMANY 

could mention five or six. You see Von Hindenburg, 
great man that he is, is simply a cog in a machine. 
A very great cog, to be sure, but then, don't you see, 
it is not a single individual that counts but the whole 
machine. If we lose a part of the machine it is re- 
placed. It is very simple. I know General von Hin- 
denburg and I know that all this talk about him, all 
this fuss, this idea of asking him, a super man, is very 
distasteful to him." 

Von Hindenburg, only the part of a system! The 
real hero of Germany then must be the composite of 
a myriad of remarkably efficient units of which Von 
Hindenburg is a single element in the war machine 
of such consummate ability that he seems to stand 
alone. 



289 



XIV 

WITH THE AMERICAN EED CROSS ON THE 
RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

i\ GRAY morning crept up somewhere beyond the 
Russian plains and in the half light, the church tower 
and housetops of Gleiwitz loomed forbiddingly 
against the dreary sky. A butcher was opening his 
store as our droschky clattered down the cobbled 
streets of the old Silesian town. The horses' hoofs 
echoed loudly; only a few stragglers were on the 
streets. Coming to a square, massive building of yel- 
lowish brick — you instantly had the impression that 
Gleiwitz had grown up around it. We saw a blue 
coated soldier standing on the steps. 

" Where is the American Hospital? '' we asked him. 

He stared at us in a puzzled way and, using that 
German expression which seems to fit any situation : 
^^ Ein AugenblicTc '' (in a minute), he proceeded to 
give our driver elaborate instructions. Off we rat- 
tled, down another vista of gray cobbles and squat 
gray houses, and presently we stopped before a clean- 
looking house of stucco, before which paced a soldier 
in the long dark gray coat of the Landsturm. 

" Where is the American Hospital? " we asked. 

It was too much for the soldier ; he called for help. 
Help came in the person of a stout, florid-faced officer 

290 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

with flowing gray mustaclie. To him we put the same 
question, and his face lighted. 

" You want Doctor Sanders, Gut, Gut! ^' 

And climbing into our droschky, his sword hanging 
over the side, close to the wheel, he told us all about 
the part Gleiwitz was playing in this war, while the 
cobbled streets rang to the beat of the horses' hoofs. 
We learned that we were way down in the southeast- 
ern corner of Germany, not far from that frontier 
point where three empires touch; we learned that 
every night if the wind was good they could hear in 
Gleiwitz the distant rumble of cannon. 

And he was telling us those things when we saw 
coming down the sidewalk, a familiar color. It was 
the olive drab of the United States army, and under 
a brown, broad-brimmed campaign hat, we saw a 
round, serious face. 

" That looks like our man," Poole said to me. A 
few nights ago Dr. Sanders had been described to 
Poole and me, and we had come here to see what he 
and his American outfit were doing down close to the 
Russian frontier. It was indeed our man, and when 
he saw us, the serious face broke into a broad grin. 

" They telegraphed me you were coming — mighty 
glad to see you." And Charles Haddon Sanders, 
whom, if you went to Georgetown University, you 
knew as " Sandy," climbed into the droschky. 

" Gosh, it's good to see an American. What news 
have you got? " And Dr. Sanders' merry eyes twin- 
kled. " How about it — come on, loosen up ! You 
must have left the States a month after I did." A 

291 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

look of concern clouded his chubby face, and I won- 
dered what worrisome thing was on his mind. 
" Say," he said, '^you're a baseball fan, aren't you? '' 
When I told him I was, he seemed relieved. " Tell 
me," he begged then, " Walter Johnson didn't sign up 
with the Feds, did he? I have a hospital in Washing- 
ton, you know, and whenever Griff's boys are home, 
I am out there at the park, pulling hard," 

And this was the first thing one heard in a city of 
war ! The puffy, mustached sanitation officer bid us 
good day ; the droschky moved on. All the way down 
the old cobbled streets of dreary Gleiwitz, Dr. San- 
ders kept talking baseball; not once did the subject 
of the war come up. I wondered if he were avoiding 
it as long as possible; later when you learned what 
he had seen, you could not blame him. Presently our 
droschky drew up in front of a rather shady -looking 
cafe. It had all the appearance of being the Maxim's 
of Gleiwitz, a sordid place, reflecting all the sordid 
dreariness of the town. Wondering why the doctor 
was getting out here — he had not seemed that sort 
— he said that this was as far as we went. I looked 
again at the place. It was a gray-stoned building, on 
the corner of a caf6, then a hotel entrance, then a 
gateway. I followed him through this gateway and 
we came into a cobbled inner court facing a wing of 
the building that appeared to be a theater; at least 
the sign over the door read, " Victoria Theater." By 
now I had begun to guess it, and when a blue-coated 
German Landwehr opened the theater door, I was 
quite sure. 

292 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

"Doctor, I suppose you have your office here/' I 
remarked. 

He laughed outright. "Office," he said, "this is 
my hospital." 

And I thought of the place, the cafe, the hotel, the 
entire building of which this was a part. He must 
have known what was passing through my mind. 

" I know," he remarked, " I felt the same way when 
I first saw it. It seemed funny, putting a hospital 
next to a rough house like that. But it was the only 
place they had left. By the time we got here, every 
school and public building in the town was filled with 
the wounded." 

As we entered the lobby of the theater I saw that 
it had been transformed into a corridor for conva- 
lescents. The stench of iodoform assailed you. 
Four German soldiers, their arms or legs bandaged, 
were sitting at a rough board table drinking beer, 
which you perceived, as a waiter appeared with a tray 
full of steins, came by way of a connecting passage- 
way from the cafe next door. 

" Better that they drink the beer here than water," 
remarked the doctor. " We've had some typhoid and 
cholera cases in Gleiwitz." Now the utterance of 
that word cholera has a magical effect. In the war 
zone it can completely spoil your day; no doubt Dr. 
Sanders must have noticed my uneasiness, for he 
hastened to add : " There's no danger ; we've got all 
those patients isolated outside this building, and if 
you haven't had an injection of cholera toxin, I'll give 
you one." 

293 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

KeassTired, I ventured further into the building, 
and pushing back a swinging door, I saw opened up 
before me a strange picture. Imagine a theater, its 
walls washed white, its orchestra stripped of chairs 
and in their places row after row of hospital cots; a 
curtain of fireproofed steel, hid the stage, from it 
hanging the white flag with the red cross, and beside 
it the stars and stripes and the red, white and black ; 
imagine the boxes filled with rough, hastily made 
wooden tables where nurses sat making out their re- 
ports, a theater where instead of an overture, you 
heard groans and sometimes a shriek from one of the 
white cots. 

" The soldier is only having a nightmare," Dr. San- 
ders explained. " They come in here sometimes not 
having slept for three days and they go off asleep for 
hours and hours — you wonder how long you can put 
off dressing their wounds to let them sleep — getting 
these nightmares every once in a while, and yelling 
out that the Eussians are after them. Nearly every 
soldier who has a nightmare yells that same thing, 
queer, because none of them fear the Russians at 
all." 

Suggesting that we would come back to see the 
ward more thoroughly. Dr. Sanders led us through 
the lobby and into what appeared to be a cloakroom. 
Only now the coat racks were half concealed by huge 
packing cases marked "American Red Cross," and 
leaning against the wall you saw two brown stretch- 
ers of the United States army ; and on the floor army 
sterilizer chests, while all around shelves had been 

294 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

built holding supplies and medical books. You no- 
ticed an operating table in the center of the room and 
in a corner a little stand for anesthetics. 

" This is our operating room,'' smiled the doctor ; 
" you never saw one like it before, did you? Neither 
did I. But for our purposes it fills the bill." 

In the lobby we met two boyish surgeons, one, 
Spearmin, tall, angular and competent-looking; the 
other. Stem, a University of Maryland man who was 
preparing for a surgeonship in the United States 
army when he got the chance to go to the war zone, 
and, boy-like, went. Spearmin and Stem handle the 
wounded. Sanders does the executive work. 

" We get plenty of work to do,'' Doctor Spearmin 
told me, " and you want to do everything for those fel- 
lows that you can. They are the pluckiest lot of men 
I ever saw. They stand pain better than most of the 
average hospital cases that I had in Baltimore." 

Later we were to learn more of those men stretched 
their length on the white cots, and the way they stood 
pain, but Dr. Sanders had a dressing to make upstairs, 
in a cloakroom once used for the patrons of the bal- 
cony. Now it was Antechamber of Death. As we 
climbed the stairs, the doctor explained : *^ We keep 
our most serious cases up here. Whenever we feel we 
have to put a man in this room, he generally dies. 
We've only lost six men, though, and we've had five 
hundred cases, some of them shockingly wounded." 

You caught the undemote of pride in the doctor's 
voice, a sensing of which you had felt at the hospital's 
very door. Pride seemed to be in the air ; you read it 

295 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

in the faces of the nurses ; the younger doctors, Stem 
and Spearmin, showed it, pride because they had 
turned the one notorious resort of Gleiwitz into an 
American hospital. And, it is significant — and it 
was a German officer who told me this — into a hos- 
pital of such efficiency that the German Sanitary Au- 
thorities always ordered that the worst cases be sent 
to Dr. Sanders and his assistants; this with thirteen 
other military hospitals in Gleiwitz. 

But I was wondering if the other patients, the men 
in the orchestra, had come to know what the little 
room upstairs meant, and if they had heard the cry 
from that Austrian's bed, and if so, what their 
thoughts were, if they had all thanked the Almighty 
for their lesser plights. You felt they had. 

" Come on, now," suggested the doctor, ^^ we'll go 
and talk to some of the patients. Sister Anna can 
speak German.'' 

Sister Anna you discovered to be a resourceful- 
looking woman of middle age, dressed in Red Cross 
gray. She was sitting at a table reading "AJice in 
Wonderland," and she said that she had spent the last 
ten years in New York at the Lying-in-hospital. Her 
capable manner impressed you, and when Dr. Sanders 
whispered : " She was the best supervisor on the Red 
Cross boat that brought us all over, and I was mighty 
lucky to get her," you agreed with him. She was 
walking on ahead between the rows of blue gingham- 
covered cots and presently she stopped before one at 
the end of the line. It is a part of the German hos- 
pital system to have a metal sign-board on a post 

296 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

behind each hospital bed, and upon this we saw 
printed the soldier's name, a private. Kaiser, of the 
148th Infantry, His wife was sitting beside his bed, 
a rosy-cheeked woman who recalled one of our middle 
Western farm girls. Quiet and calm, satisfied that 
her husband was in the best of hands, she smiled 
thankfully at Sister Anna and the doctor. Her hus- 
band was wounded in both the arm and leg and oddly 
enough by the same bullet, which, with a little smile, 
he picked up from a bed table to show us. 

" It entered his arm above the elbow,'' explained 
the doctor, " went clean through, hit an electric torch 
in his pocket, glanced off that and went into his thigh. 
It was an interesting case. On the other side of his 
thigh, I found the wound of exit. Imagine my sur- 
prise when in a few days I discovered that the bullet 
was still in his leg, and that the exit wound had been 
made by a piece of bone breaking through." 

It seemed that Private Kaiser could understand a 
little English, and he nodded eagerly. We asked him 
some questions, and it developed he had been a school 
teacher in Hamburg. 

" I was wounded near Brounsberg in East Prus- 
sia," he told us. " It was towards evening, almost 
dark, and not thinking the Russians could see us, we 
got up to dig a trench. I was alone, way off at the 
end of the line when I was shot. It did not hurt me 
much when the bullet hit me. It took me off my feet, 
though I spun around twice before I fell. No one 
saw me and I lay on the ground for ten minutes. 
Then I was able to get up, and I walked away to the 

297 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

hospital. How I did it I can't tell you, but all at 
once my strength seemed to come back." 

" Probably nervous shock made Mm helpless," ex- 
plained the doctor in an undertone, " and when that 
passed he was able to help himself a bit." 

We were going down the line of beds, talking to 
another patient, when the doctor said it was time for 
lunch, and that we might visit the patients again in 
the afternoon. Two of the nurses — there are four- 
teen American girls at Gleiwitz - — walked back with 
us. I asked one of them, a young Boston girl, why 
she had come to the war. 

" I don't know," she said. " I had made my appli- 
cation for a Red Cross nurse, and I was ready to go 
to Mexico. Then I got word that they wanted nurses 
in Europe, so I packed up and came along on twenty- 
four hours' notice. 

" What I've seen of the war here, though," she said, 
" is not half so terrible as it was in the English Chan- 
nel. We were on the coast of France one morning 
when I happened to see a big round thing in the 
water. I thought it was a mine, and I guess I 
screamed. Then I thought it was a dummy, but it 
wasn't that, it was a body, and there were six other 
bodies, all sailors from those English ships that the 
submarine blew up. Isn't there some way I could go 
back home without going through the English Chan- 
nel? I can't bear thinking of seeing anything like 
that again." 

I told her she could probably take a steamer at 
Naples or Copenhagen, and she seemed greatly re- 

298 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

lieved — she who had seen mangled men without a 
flicker of her nerves. Presently she left us to cross 
what was evidently the aristocratic street of the town. 

" They are going over to a little club — the city 
club/' explained the doctor; "that's where we take 
our meals. We'll go to my room first, though, if you 
like, before dinner." 

Modestly the doctor spoke of his room, but to our 
surprise he stopped in front of one of the few impos- 
ing-looking houses in Gleiwitz. It was one of those 
venerable places which makes you think that the man 
who lives there must about own the other inhabitants 
body and soul. Occupying about four hundred feet, 
corner frontage, towering amid symmetrical lawns 
and flower beds, guarded by a ten-foot iron fence, the 
old-fashioned house stood back like a castle. 

" Nothing like it," said the doctor with a smile. 
" It belongs to one of the richest men in Silesia. He's 
at the front, in France. He's a captain, by the way, 
just won the Iron Cross. His wife is in Berlin for 
the winter, so we're here, Spearmin, Stem and 
myself, with ten servants to wait on us, and the best 
of everything for the asking. Not bad, eh? " 

While we were listening to a baseball story of the 
doctor's, we took in the luxurious appointments of his 
room. Then you thought of the makeshift hospital 
and how topsy-turvy war turns everything. From 
his valise, the doctor produced a Russian bayonet, hat 
and cartridge belt. 

" They cost me two marks," he said, " for the whole 
outfit. I bought them from the driver of an Austrian 

299 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

ammunition wagon. Have a cartridge? " and he 
passed the belt as one might pass a box of candy. 
They were ugly-looking bullets, not as pointed as the 
Germans^ The bayonet also was uglier, curved like 
an old-fashioned saber. 

"It's no good alongside the German bayonet, 
though," explained Dr. Sanders ; " that's longer and 
straighter. You ought to hear how some of the 
wounded over at the hospital talk about their bayo- 
nets. One fellow was telling me the other day that 
he had ripped it through the stomachs of three Rus- 
sians." And even the doctor, hardened to such 
things, made a grimace. 

After a luncheon, where, like the father of a large 
family, the doctor sat at the head of a long table with 
his nurses and assistants around him, everybody ask- 
ing if the Christmas mail from the States had come, 
we returned to the hospital. We found great excite- 
ment. Two officers had been there, the orderly ex- 
plaining that one was the sanitation commander of 
all hospitals at Gleiwitz, and that the other was Cap- 
tain Hoffman of the garrison. What did they want? 
The orderly didn't know, but it must have been some- 
thing very important, for they had told him to say to 
Dr. Sanders that they would return in half an hour, 
and for him please to be there, whereupon the orderly, 
to my amazement, looked at me a little suspiciously; 
indeed, his eyes followed me into the lobby. 

" What's the matter with that chap? " I asked the 
doctor. 

"Oh, he's spy crazy," replied Dr. Sanders; "you 

300 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

see, they caught two Kussians here the other day, and 
the captain he speaks of presided at the trial. They 
put the spies up against the wall of that old barn 
over there. We could hear the shooting.'^ 

The doctor's tone was so casual that you concluded 
spy -killing to be commonplace at Gleiwitz. 

'^ Come down here a second," continued the doctor. 
" I want you to take a look at a couple of patients." 

As you walked between the cots you were conscious 
of the gaze of the wounded turned hopefully on this 
business-like American. Of the peasant class nearly 
all the soldiers seemed to regain hope at the sight of 
him. So it was with the two boys off in a comer by 
themselves. They were rather slender fellows, amaz- 
ingly young, with mischievous faces. " They live 
next door to each other," said the doctor, " in a little 
village in Schleswig-Holstein. The one on the left 
had a bullet in his brain, the other had his arm frac- 
tured by a piece of shrapnel." 

" How old are they? " 

" The boy who had the bullet in his brain," said the 
doctor, "is not yet seventeen; the other is a few 
months older." 

They met you with a bold smile, fun darting from 
their mischievous eyes, like American boys might 
smile at a foreigner. You saw that they wore the 
clean, light blue jackets that mark every patient of 
the American Ked Cross, but you thought of the dirty, 
gray -green uniforms and how long these boys had lain 
before they were picked up. Ajid then, like many 
youngsters you see in the first classes of a high school, 

301 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

they became self-conscious, giggling like girls at a 
first party, and you thought of them at war; and a 
shuddery sensation came over you. 

" You think it's terrible, don't you? " he said. 
" Wait a minute." 

He beckoned Sister Anna, and she joined us. 

" Sister Anna,'' he said, " ask that boy with the 
brain wound to tell the story that he told me the other 
day." 

Sister Anna's manner was reluctant, and you doubt 
that she wanted to hear that story again. But she 
put the request in German, and instantly the eyes of 
the little fellow grew bright. 

" We were near Iwangorod," he began. " Max and 
I were on outpost duty and got cut off from our regi- 
ment. Night came and we started back to find them. 
We were passing through a little village, just five or 
six houses, when somebody shot at us." He paused, 
turning, as if for confirmation, to the other bed, where 
Max, half sitting up, nodded eagerly. " We'll ^x 
them, Max," I said, " and we ran behind a house, so 
they couldn't shoot again. Then all lights in the win- 
dows went out — every light in the village. I was 
glad there was no moon. We got some wood, a lot 
of it. We fixed it in piles beside every house. We 
broke into a cellar and stole some oil. We emptied 
the oil on the wood, then we lit it, and ran to the next 
house, and lit it there." His eyes were burning fever- 
ishly. " Pretty soon we had the whole village on 
fire, didn't we. Max? " 

" Ja ! Ja ! " cried Max, from the other bed. 

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AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

And you realized that they were suddenly boys no 
longer, that their faces had reddened in a hectic way, 
and that into their young minds had come the fright- 
ful insanity of war. With a sickening feeling you 
turned from them, and going away, thought that only 
last July, back in that Holstein village, they doubt- 
less had been playing the games that German boys 
play ; then you heard Max cry out : 

" And when we get better. Doctor, we're going back 
and each kill a hundred Kussians ! " And with his 
white hands you saw the boy lunge as though already 
he could hear the ripping steel. . . . What if you 
were his father? 

" There are many like that — eager to get out of 
bed and back to the front,'' said the doctor. " Not so 
young, of course, but they all want another chance 
at the game; that is, all but the older men. You 
ought to have been here the other day. Count Talley- 
rand-Perigord was here. He's the nephew of the 
great diplomat, French descent of course. The 
Count has an estate near here. He's a young chap. 
He's been simply splendid to us. I guess he never 
did very much work before; you can imagine how a 
young man of his position spends his time. When 
the war broke out he volunteered for the Red Cross, 
and they made him a sort of a personal escort for me, 
to see that everything goes right over here. He 
spends his entire time with us. He watches all the 
operations, is intensely interested, asks all sorts of 
questions about them, and goes with me from bed to 
bed, asking the men what they want, doing everything 

303 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

he can for them. I tell you it quite surprised me, a 
young man of his position, in the French nobility, 
bucking right down to things. Count Szechenyi, you 
know, who married Gladys Vanderbilt ; he's stationed 
over just across the Austrian border. He came up 
the other day to see Count Talleyrand and they 
dropped in here in the afternoon to visit the patients. 
I had expected something different from Count Szech- 
enyi. You know what that Austrian count is. But 
he was just as democratic as if he had been a private 
in the ranks." 

While talking, the doctor had been crossing the 
theater until he came to a side wall exit door that 
opened out on what appeared to be a promenade. It 
was glassed in, like a sun parlor and looked out on 
what had been a cheap beer-garden. Along one wall 
we saw a row of muddy brown and black boots. On 
the floor were piles of uniforms, German, Russian and 
Austrian, and knapsacks, drilled and nicked with bul- 
lets. Kicking over a filthy bundle of field gray, I saw 
that it was slashed. 

"We had to cut most of the uniforms off the 
wounded,'' explained the doctor. " Most of them we 
have thrown out — we had to. If you could only 
have seen what those men looked like when they were 
brought in! We get them from the field hospital. 
This is the first hospital behind the lines, and when 
they are well enough to be moved, they are sent on to 
better quarters, further into Germany, but the way 
those fellows looked. Think of it, some of them had 
not had their uniforms off for three months. When 

304 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

we took off one man's boot, we found a blood clot two 
inches thick on the sole of his foot. It had run down 
from a wound on his leg. Why, some of those men 
were five days on the battlefield before they were 
found. One or two were out of their minds. You 
cannot conceive the horror of it! Later, I'm going 
to get one of those fellows to tell you his story." 

The time had swiftly passed and as we came back 
into the theater, we saw two gray-cloaked German 
officers, and at their heels the orderly. They seemed 
very much excited, and I was sure now that they were 
going to ask the doctor if he was positive that I was 
not an English spy. It was something more exciting, 
though. They conversed in German, and I caught 
the words, ^^ Eisener Kreuz/' 

'' What a piece of luck ! " the doctor exclaimed ; 
" one of my patients has been awarded the Iron Cross, 
and Captain Hoffman of the Gleiwitz garrison has 
come to make the presentation." 

We walked then to the bedside of a mild-looking 
man, who, you learned, was Landwehr, private Grabbe 
of the second Stralsund. A bulkiness to his leg 
under the covers showed where he had been wounded, 
and when he saw the gray-coated officers, a question 
leaped in his quiet eyes. You wondered if he knew 
and how many days he had lain there doubting and 
dreaming if ever they would come. The Captain 
strode towards him, held out his hand, and said, " I 
congratulate you." You followed the soldier's eyes 
as they watched the Captain's hands reach into his 
coat pocket and draw from it the band of black and 

305 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

white ribbon from which dangled the coveted cross. 
Without a word the Captain fastened it to the second 
button of the man's hospital jacket and stepping back, 
saluted him. You saw the soldier pick up the cross 
in both hands, stare at it a moment, while his eyes 
filled a little, and then his mild face turning wonder- 
fully happy, he awkwardly expressed his thanks. As 
the last stammered word was spoken there burst from 
all the wounded a huzza. The nurses applauded and, 
overwrought, the soldier tried to sit upright in bed 
and bow his thanks. He had half succeeded when we 
saw him wince, and Dr. Sanders made him lie down. 
The congratulations over, we left him calling for 
pencil and paper, for at once he must write home 
about it. And you wondered how much you would 
have given could that one minute of this soldier's life 
be included in your own. 

" Wait till I tell you what the fellow did," said the 
doctor, after the officers had bowed themselves away. 
" It is one of the duties of the Landwehr, you know, 
to guard the railroads. Late in October, when the 
Germans were retreating from their lines outside 
Warsaw, they had to hold the railroads to the last. 
This man's commander was ordered to hold back the 
Kussians from a little railroad depot. Private 
Grabbe was given ten men and a machine gun and 
posted by a little house near the station. He had to 
keep back an overwhelming number of Russians until 
an entire battalion was on the train, and then with 
the little detail make a run for it. Well, as the Rus- 

306 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

sians came in great force, his comrades retreated and 
left him there alone. 

" As I told you, men get crazy in battle. Grabbe 
did not know that he was alone. He stuck by that 
machine gun, wounded and alone, mowing down the 
Russians until the whole German battalion — twelve 
hundred men — had withdrawn. Still he stuck to 
that machine gun, slaughtering them so, that by 
George! the Russians retreated. Grabbe's com- 
mander came up presently and asked him where the 
other men were. Grabbe said he didn't know and 
then the Commander saw that he was wounded." 

Outside a violin began to play, and Dr. Sanders 
explained that often the local talent dropped in to 
entertain the wounded. The music continued and we 
went from bed to bed hearing the different stories; 
then the music stopped, and in a clear, though child- 
ishly quavering voice, a girl began a recitation in the 
lobby outside. Before he came to Gleiwitz, Dr. San- 
ders didn't know two German words. Now, as he 
told me, he knows three. Consequently, as the girl 
spoke on and the faces of all the wounded suddenly 
became grim, the doctor wondered why. Then here 
and there a man began repeating the girl's words, 
others, too weak to speak, following her words with 
moving lips. Higher and higher quavered her voice; 
and suddenly I recognized what she was saying. Be- 
fore I could tell the doctor, though, she swept into a 
climax, to fierce ^^ JawohW from the lips of the 
wounded. 

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BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" I don't know what you're saying/' shouted Dr. 
Sanders, rushing into the lobby, " but stop it. It ex- 
cites these patients." 

He saw that I was grinning, and asked what the 
joke was. " It's on me, what was that girl speak- 
ing? " 

" A new poem," I told him. " The name is : * Mur- 
derous England.' " 

" So that's it, eh? " And he went up to the girl, 
whose hair was braided down her back and whose 
cheap, bright pattern dress came barely below her 
knees. 

" Now, little girl," he said, " when you want to 
come round to the hospital to entertain the prisoners, 
you learn how to speak ' Mary Had a Little Lamb ' 
or something. Get Sister Anna to teach it to you ! " 
And patting the child on the head. Dr. Sanders gave 
her a ten-pfennig piece, and asked her who had taught 
her the poem. 

^^ Meine Mutter/^ replied the child. 

We then sat in the lobby for two hours, buying beer 
for the convalescents and listening to their stories. 
One man told us how, with two hundred soldiers, he 
had hid in a Russian barn, and that a shrapnel shell 
flying through the window had exploded, killing and 
wounding nearly every one in his company. Another 
told how he had been on outpost duty with seven other 
men, and that the Russians had begun machine gun 
fire at night. All his comrades were either killed or 
wounded, and he said that although he was only 
wounded in the arm, he did not dare to get up because 

308 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

the Russians maintained a steady fire for four hours, 
and that all he could do was to hug the ground with 
the bullets whizzing over him, knowing that he was 
growing weaker and weaker every moment. Another 
had a most interesting experience. While in a shal- 
low trench, he had been hit in the arm and in the leg. 
The hospital corps got him. The stretcher bearers 
were taking him back, when suddenly it got too hot 
for them, and they had to drop him and run for cover. 
The firing ceased, and, seeing he was alone, the soldier 
crawled over to a dead German and picked up his 
rifle. He was half sitting with this in his lap, when 
he saw some Russians coming. He raised the gun 
and they ran, and then he discovered they were hos- 
pital men. He was cursing his luck, when one of his 
comrades, a little fellow, who had come back to find 
him, discovered him. They traveled back to the Ger- 
man lines at intervals of ten minutes, the little fellow 
having to put him down to rest every so often. Then 
the doctor began to tell me something about the 
wounds he had seen as the result of this war. 

" What I marvel at is," said Dr. Sanders, " that a 
man can go into the battleline and come out alive. 
The amount of lead and steel that is sent flying 
through the air is appalling. Of course we will not 
have any statistics on it until after the war is over, 
but everything I can learn from the wounded, and 
from the nature of their wounds — and I have men 
here hit five times — they must be using far, far more 
ammunition, proportionately of course, than in any 
war in the world's history. By the way, judging 

309 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

from my patients, the Russians cannot be using dum- 
dums. I have yet to find one in a man. For every 
three rifle ball wounds, we get two caused by shrapnel 
and about one quarter by fragments of bursting 
shells. We had a man who was hit by a piece of 
shell — and those fragments are terribly hot. It cut 
his throat to his ear, but it just stopped at the sheath 
of the artery. His life was saved by the minute dis- 
tance. The Germans have the greatest confidence in 
us here. We have one man here who might have been 
sent on to another hospital five weeks ago. We didn't 
send him, though. It was almost a form of paranoia 
and honestly I dreaded sending that man away. I 
feared the nervous shock. Doctors who come from 
the front tell me that they have actually seen cases of 
men being killed, who only had a bullet wound in 
their hand. It was the nervous shock that killed 
them. 

" You see those two Russians," and the doctor 
pointed towards two heavy-faced patients. " Well, 
they were in mortal terror that we were making them 
well so as to have more fun by killing them later. It 
took two weeks to convince them that they would not 
be put to death. They are pets here now." 

The doctor was called away a moment, and as I 
watched him stride off, his sturdy figure carrying well 
the olive-drab of the United States army, I noticed 
again that the heads of the wounded turned, following 
him with thankful eyes, and it was not difficult longer 
to understand how these few Americans were able to 
come into the midst of strange Silesia, and transform 

310 



AMERICAN RED CROSS ON RUSSIAN FRONTIER 

that theater, where at night if they forget to shut the 
door, they can hear the ribald clamor from the cheap 
cabaret next door; it was not difficult to understand 
how they, all of them having their first experience 
with war, had developed an efficiency which the Ger- 
mans had complimented by sending them the worst 
cases from the firing line. That sturdy, wide-shoul- 
dered man in army olive-drab personified something 
that made you thrill at the thought that you were an 
American. 

But Dr. Sanders was not the last impression that 
I had of Gleiwitz, although he waved good-by to me 
at the train. 

As I look back at Gleiwitz now, I can see the flat- 
floored theater with the gray nurses lighting lamps. 
The early twilight is coming through the windows. 
It is all quiet. In two hours the wounded will have 
supper, and here and there you can hear the deep 
breathing of sleep. In the lingering light the steel 
curtain has turned a vague gray and of the three flags, 
only our own is sharply defined. I see Sister Anna 
walking softly between the rows of gingham-spread 
cots, her kind, almost saintly face hallowed by the 
lamp in her hands. She is beckoning. She raises 
the lamp so that its pale reflection falls upon a bed. 
And there I see the boy from the Schleswig-Holstein 
village, who, with his chum, burned a Russian village, 
and whose ambition is to kill a hundred men; and the 
boy's face is buried in the pillow, his arm circling 
round it, like a baby asleep. 

311 



XV 

THE SECRET BOOKS OF ENGLAND^S GEN- 
ERAL STAFF 

WF course Germany was prepared. Russia and 
France were prepared, not so sufficiently, of course, 
as Germany; yet with their reorganized armies both 
were judged powerful on land. England though was 
unprepared. Everybody knew that. The newspa- 
pers said so. Statesmen said so. Parliament admitted 
it. To be sure the British Navy for years was pre- 
pared. Winston Churchill announced that. But the 
empire was not ready for its army was not ready. It 
was a small army, a quarter of a million men, twice as 
large as the United States army. It was useful in 
the colonies. Everybody knew Tommy Atkins. Kip- 
ling did that. But for fighting on the continent of 
Europe was like venturing into a strange land for 
these soldiers of England's colonial domain. They 
were not ready. Any Englishman will tell you that. 
But the most amazing part of it all is that the Brit- 
ish army was wonderfully prepared. 

This will be merely a document of military won- 
ders ; diplomatic considerations will have no part in 
it. I promise you to abstain from the use of that tire- 
some word — neutrality. 

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The English army was ready to go to war. It was 
ready to go to war in Belgium. Its officers knew 
everything there was to be known about Belgium. 
They knew every square mile of Belgium's terrain. 
They knew what districts were best suited to strategi- 
cal purposes. They knew what roads best to use for 
their artillery, what roads best could stand the heavy 
guns, what roads best could not. They knew every 
body of water in Belgium. They knew what water 
was fit to drink and what was not. They knew the 
current of every stream and the number of boats on 
it. They knew the number of houses in every Belgian 
village and the number of soldiers that could be bil- 
leted in those houses. They knew the location of 
every church steeple in Belgium, and whether or not 
to recommend it as an observation post. They knew 
what roads their troops could march on without being 
seen by the aviators of the enemy — what roads were 
hidden from the sky by the interlacing branches of 
the big trees. They even knew the best places for 
their own aviators to land. Every conceivable thing 
that a modern army should know about a future bat- 
tleground the British army knew. . . . How do I 
know this? 

At the battle of Mons in northern France where 
something happened — the English say it was the 
French supports ; the French blame it on the English 
— those wonderful soldiers of Great Britain, the pro- 
fessional soldiers, were cut to pieces. The Germans 
made many prisoners. In the kits of the captured 
British officers they found some interesting docu- 

313 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

ments. They were books of a size that would fit in a 
coat pocket. They were about a quarter of an inch to 
an inch thick. They were printed on white paper and 
the covers were a light brown. They were finger- 
marked and muddy. They contained the most amaz- 
ing collection of military information that any na- 
tion ever possessed for its army. Some books were 
marked Confidential; others bore the designation 
property of His Britannic Majesty's Government; all 
were prepared by the General Staff, of the English 
War Office. 

All the books were dated 1914, brought right up to 
the minute. At the Great General Staff in Berlin I 
saw these books. I sat in Major von Herwarth's 
room one night and copied their contents until I was 
overwhelmed with their wonderful detail. I had 
wanted to take the books to my hotel. It was impos- 
sible. They were regarded by the Germans as being 
so valuable that they could not be taken from this 
officer's room. I induced the Staff to let me make 
photographs of the books, of their covers, pages and 
maps. And when I was finished the officer said to 
me, " We were very glad to get these books. We were 
very thankful. Because they are so much better than 
any information that our General Staff had about 
Belgium. In fact they are so good, these English 
books, that we at once had whole pages copied for the 
use of our officers in Belgium." 

The Germans admitting English superiority on a 
military point! Germany, whom everybody thought 
was the best prepared nation in Europe, beaten at its 

314 



THE SECRET BOOKS OF ENGLAND 

own game. So valuable are these books regarded by 
the General Staff that they are locked in a safe. 

As I digested the contents of these English books, 
I decided that if I had military power behind me, and 
these books in my pocket, that I could walk, ride, even 
fly in Belgium — without ever having been there be- 
fore. I could always know precisely where I was at, 
where I could best be housed. I saw that each book 
begins with " roads,'' and reports the widths, surfac- 
ing and nature of the ground on either side of these 
roads. Every conceivable bit of information about 
the railroads in Belgium is between the covers, even 
down to the station masters at small places and the 
language each one speaks. Rivers, canals, bridges, 
dikes, have all been tested by the unprepared English- 
men. I thought now English cavalrymen were inter- 
ested in learning that, /^ in the village of Eppeghen 
there are three forges.'' On another page I learned 
that " a kindly feeling exists for England because of 
a school for English children." In Tamines, " a large 
number of Germans are employed in the electrical 
work." On page 17 of Volume Two, I read " the farms 
. . . are large solidly built structures, the barns 
usually being lofty with high eaves. The two storied 
dwelling houses enclose a barnyard. The Howitzer 
is the weapon of attack against them and the folds in 
the ground facilitates its use." Under " Monetary 
Contributions " ; I read, " It may be necessary under 
certain conditions in an enemy's country to replace 
supply requisitions in kind by contributions in 
money." 

315 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

And the English blame the Germans for their levies 
in captured cities In the upper right hand corner of 
Volume Three, I saw what seemed to be a serial num- 
ber — 349. The other volumes also bore this number. 
Volume III declares itself to be a report on road, river 
and billeting conditions in Belgium ; it gives informa- 
tion for the country between the river Meuse and the 
German frontier, going as far south as certain desig- 
nated military lines. Glancing over this book, I saw 
on page 20 that the district near the German frontier 
was particularly suitable for billeting soldiers, that 
three or four men could be housed with every inhabi- 
tant except in Seraing and Li^ge where only two 
soldiers could be put up. On page 232 I learned that 
the billeting report had been reconnoitered every year 
from 1907 to 1913. This means that in the district 
covered by this book every dwelling place with a roof 
over it had been checked up every year for seven years. 
Thus were proper living accommodations for English 
soldiers in Belgium verified by the skilled War Oflace 
of London. 

In Volume IV whi^h gave all military routes for 
Belgium north and east of the line Brussels, Nivels, 
Namur, Li^ge, Vise, I read on page 13 that the refer- 
ence maps dealing with the section " Brussels-Lou- 
vain " were those of the Belgian General Staff of a 
scale %o,ooo but that sheets 31 and 31 of the English 
War Office were also available. Those English sheets 
were based on a reconnoiter of the entire district made 
in 1913 by the English. But more significant is it 
that English officers were referred to the %o,ooo scale 

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maps of the Belgian staff, which England obviously 
must at that time have had — as an asset of prepared- 
ness. 

In the German General Staff I had a number of 
these English maps photographed. They were drawn 
by the British War Office and photo-etched by the 
Ordnance Survey office at Southampton 1912. As you 
may see from the accompanying illustration their de- 
tail is marvelous. Even orchards, ruins and wind 
mills are designated. 

A Staff Officer in possession of one of these books 
would not have to reconnoiter Belgium. Referring to 
Volume IV, which devotes a good deal of space to 
the movement of troops, he would learn that delays in 
marching might be caused by " a steep ascent for half 
a mile out of Brussels on the road to Louvain.'^ He 
would be comforted to know, though, that " there is a 
good field of fire and fine view from the roadway ex- 
cept between Cortenberg and Louvain where the view 
is reduced to one half mile. Troops could operate 
easily anywhere except in the hilly wooded country 
about Cortenberg to the south." If he wanted an ob- 
servation post he would learn that at Cortenberg there 
was a good church steeple. A footnote reassures 
him that the roadway has been lined with trees 
which would afford in summer cover from aerial 
scouts. 

These books throw an interesting light upon the 
question of shelled churches. The Allies have accused 
the Germans and the Germans have accused the Allies 
of using church steeples for observation posts. Both 

317 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

armies have used them, both have shelled them. I 
make this statement because I saw the cathedral of 
Malines gaping with a hole that could only have come 
from a German gun — so did the lines run — and be- 
cause at Houtem, I climbed the steeple of the church 
of the Annunciation of Mary the Virgin to a German 
post, and I make this statement because on page 176 
of Volume III of these English books on Belgium, I 
read under '' observation points '' the names of no less 
than five churches for a single small district. I photo- 
graphed this page ; you may read the church for your- 
self. 

Page 70 of Volume III assures an English officer 
that " a few infantry with sandbags could from the 
parapet of the barrage near the Belgium line hold the 
approach to Jalhay up to the valley." On page 91, 
reconnoitered in 1913, he learns that " the best way to 
attack Terwagne appears to be from the southwest 
where there is a good deal of dead ground and artil- 
lery co-operation could be obtained from Liveliet." 
On page 122 he learns that " an advance up the Liffe- 
Thynes valley supported by guns on the Sorraine ridge 
appears to be the best way of dealing with ( two tacti- 
cal situations which are called) A and B." 

Perhaps some of the most interesting bits of mili- 
tary information are contained in the 1914 issue of 
secret Field Notes which is numbered A 1775. Using 
this book an English cavalry commander upon turn- 
ing to page 32 and looking at (a) reads : 

" Classes of persons in Belgium who might be use- 
ful as guides.'^ 

318 



THE SECRET BOOKS OF ENGLAND 

He sees that Gardes champetres are credited with 
knowing the rural districts well. They should be 
able to give the English army information about con- 
ditions of water, forage horses, live stock and vehicles. 
The gardes forestiers know in detail the woods in 
their own districts. " Rural postmen, many who own 
bicycles and cycle repairers, especially the official re- 
pairers to the touring club of Belgium would be in- 
valuable as guides." The English officers are advised 
to get hold of the drivers of tradesmen carts as they 
supply most of the villages from the towns, and would 
therefore know local roads well. 

But to me the climax was reached when T read in 
this book of English field notes a description of the 
code in use by the Belgium army for writing orders. 
I shall quote in part exactly what was written. " The 
names of units are generally replaced by their initials ; 
the numbers of regiments are written in large arable 
figures; those of battalions, squadrons or artillery 
groups in Roman figures; those of company troops 
(pelotons) of cavalry and batteries in small arable 
figures." 

EM %TT 

They give an example. ^^— They explain 

that this means in code, regimental headquarters and 
the second company of the third battalion of the 
Tenth Belgian Infantry of the line. Thus in code 
EM = Infantry headquarters; 2 = 2nd company; 
III = 3rd battalion; 10 = 10th infantry. 

They give ' 1^\ ' They explain that this means 

5 D.A. 

319 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

the second mechanical motor artillery ammunition 
column of the Fifth Division. Thus, in code, 2 
C.M.S.S. = headquarters 2nd mechanical ammunition 
column ; 5 D. A. = 5th Division, artillery. 

And these are code orders of the Belgium army and 
the English General Staff knew about them before 
war was declared! And England was unprepared! 
These books tell me that England was beating the Ger- 
mans at their own game. 

Opening one book I saw a table that ran across two 
entire pages. This table was filled in the most in- 
timate details regarding a single village. 

In one of the road and river reports I read these 
words, " Data given by the Belgium government rail- 
road cabinet on January 1st, 1912." Thus was the 
English officer assured of its accuracy. These are the 
figures that were given for the use of British troops in 
Belgium. 

Locomotives 4,233 

Coaches 8,001 

Baggage cars 2,714 

Goods wagons 86,562 

Special wagons, 

(for oil, etc.) 2,418 

I think I have quoted enough material from these 
wonderful books to show the thoroughness with which 
the British soldiers were ready to fight in Belgium. 
Now the Germans have shot down many British avia- 
tors and on one of these men they found a book. It 

320 




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had the same brown paper cover as the road and river 
reports. It was of the same convenient pocket size. 
It had the same serial letter A for army, and it was 
numbered 1775. I saw this book in the General Staff. 
It is " A report on Belgium south of the line Charle- 
roi, Namur, Li^ge and Brussels for aviators." I pho- 
tographed pages 3, 6 and 20 of this book. Page 3 
which began the information gave some interesting 
generalizations on the whole district. On page 6, 
dealing with Namur, I read that English aviators were 
told that the glaces of Fort d'Emine provided unlim- 
ited open cultivated ground suitable for landing pur- 
poses. In other words they were advised by the Eng- 
lish War OflSce that it would be safe to land under the 
very guns of this Belgian fort. If they were flying in 
the Liege district they would read on page 20 that five 
miles out on the east of the Aywaille road they could 
prepare a very good landing place on grass by the 
simple removal of some wire fences. They were as- 
sured that from the south they would be completely 
covered by the Belgian guns of Fort d'Emibourg. In 
other words the British War Office was so well pre- 
pared, knew so exactly what it was doing that in July 
of 1914 it issued a book advising its aviators how to 
land in places where they would be covered by Bel- 
gian forts. 

A map accompanied this aviation book. Let us see 
how this map was used. Examine this map around 
Liege. You will see numbers running from 89 to 94. 
An aviator flying over Li^ge consulting his map knows 

321 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

that each of these numbers has to do with a landing 
place. Let us suppose he selects 92. 

Opening his book, until he finds the index number 
92 he reads that " To the southwest towards Neuville 
and Rotheux the country is very broken and wooded. 
There is a good level cultivated landing place, how- 
ever, about 1500 yards south of the Fort de Boucelles. 
. . . Where communication with Liege exists.'' To 
use this map a British aviator flying over the section 
south of the line Charleroi, Namur, Liege and Brus- 
sels, would see what point he was over and would then 
look it up by the index number on the map and in the 
book he would read whether it was wise to make a 
landing there and just what conditions he would meet. 

Here are some bits verbatim from the book. 

" In many cases the woods are so stunted and strag- 
gling that during winter, aerial observation of troops 
actually in them would probably be possible. . . . 
Somewhat soft after rain. Difficult for a landing. 
. . . The spa race course on the Francorchamps road 
is useless." 

In this and other ways were the British aviators 
cautioned about using their aeroplanes in Belgium. 

For the last few years we have all been hearing 
about the wonderful maps and information that Ger- 
many had of all the countries in Europe. No one, 
however, has ever seen any of these books ; and no 
one has ever publicly quoted any of their contents. I 
believe they exist. I think, however, that the photo- 
graphs printed here are the first permanent public 
records of the most confidential books in use by the 

322 



THE SECRET BOOKS OF ENGLAND 

army of a world power. I think they have a certain 
historical significance. At any rate, that England 
should possess them is amazing — England whom 
everybody but Germany thought was the least pre- 
pared of all. 



323 



XVI 

THE FUTUKE — PEACE OR WAR 

Impressions gained during my talk with the 1914 
choice for the Nobel Peace Prize — Pro- 
fessor Ludwig Stein 

IN The Hague the Temple of Peace is empty; all 
over the world ordnance factories are full. Since the 
day of that first convention in Geneva educated men 
have organized and pushed the international move- 
ment, which is called world peace. Is it a success or 
a failure? 

At his home in Berlin, early in February, I talked 
with one of the leading men of this movement concern- 
ing these things. I asked Professor Ludwig Stein, — 
whose activities for world peace are well known in 
America, he having been chosen for the Nobel Peace 
prize of 1914 which was never awarded, he being 
formerly one of the three permanent members of the 
Bern Bureau for International Peace, he having been 
selected to present the famous declaration of peace to 
the late Edward the Seventh, whom the peace people 
called Edward the Peacemaker, he having worked side 
by side with Andrew Carnegie for the " ideal " — I 
asked him, could peace soon be made in this war? 

324 



THE FUTURE — PEACE OR WAR 

A deliberate man is Professor Stein, and he thought 
so long without replying that his personality im- 
pressed itself upon you before he had uttered a word 
— a strange combination of the dreamer and the man 
of to-day, a contrast of gentle eyes and grim jaw. 

" At this time,'^ he said, tapping his finger on the 
copper-topped smoking table in his study, " peace is 
impossible. President Wilson's endeavors are futile. 
Before a decisive result has been reached, peace can- 
not be thought of. Once Warsaw is captured, it is 
likely that Russia will make peace ; or if not Warsaw, 
if a large really decisive battle is fought." 

It seemed significant that such an apostle of peace 
as Profesosr Stein should have so completely given 
up all faith in the immediate efficacy of his move- 
ment. I asked him therefore if he considered it a fail- 
ure. 

" The peace movement," he said, " is like a fire de- 
partment. If a few houses burn, or the conflagration 
spreads even over a number of blocks, the fire fighters 
are effective, but if a whole city burns, like the big 
Chicago fire, the fire department can do nothing. 
And if the whole world burns, what can the workers 
for peace do? Our movement is not strong enough; 
it is not big enough. For the Balkan war, the fire- 
men were effective, they could confine the burning 
within that limited area, but when all Europe sprang 
up in flames, we failed." I mentioned to the Professor 
that this was a new conception to the peace movement 
in America, the first admission from a peace-man that 
the power of the movement was to-day limited. I 

325 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

asked Professor Stein then if we were to think of the 
movement as being a limited success or was there any 
chance of it ever attaining something bigger? 

" The task of the nineteenth century," he replied, 
" was to let national feeling grow subconsciously. In 
Prussia, Fichte, the first rector of the new Berlin 
University, made his famous ' Speeches for the Ger- 
man Nation.' Jahn preached ' German Unity.' 
Achim von Arnim collected German songs and war 
songs of German warriors. Even Schiller wrote in 
his later years of Germany as the heart and center 
of Europe, and began to feel more national than 
Goethe ever did. The idea grew and produced 
united Italy and united Germany. But this process 
of attaining national consciousness is not yet 
achieved. In America it is not nearly finished. It 
is a sociological, unconsciously pedagogical process. 
The time will come when nationalism will be 
thoroughly saturated in each country. When it does 
and not until then, states will see that it is impossible 
to produce and consume everything. That will be the 
beginning of international consciousness. Then the 
national spirit will become secondary to conscious in- 
ternationalism. When that time comes, world peace 
will be possible." 

I was going to ask Professor Stein how far off 
that day was but thought it best first to take up his 
point, the thorough establishment of the national 
idea being the beginning of world peace. 

" As the national feeling grows,'' I asked him, " will 
not the goal for peace become always more remote? 

326 



THE FUTURE — PEACE OR WAR 

It seems to me that international consciousness is de- 
pendent upon the people of one country knowing the 
people of another. How can, for instance, the Rus- 
sian peasant ever understand the customs and per- 
sonality of say, the poor man in England? Because 
of geographical reasons they can never get into touch 
with one another; how then are the masses of the 
states of the world ever going to understand each 
other, and how without this understanding can there 
ever be world peace? " 

Professor Stein believes that this barrier can be 
overcome. 

" Modern science and fast steamers," he replied, 
" the wireless, and better international trade under- 
standing are constantly bringing together all states. 
Through journalists, merchants, diplomats and ex- 
tensive traveling on the part of the people of all coun- 
tries, the inhabitants of all different parts of the 
world begin to know each other. A hundred years 
ago the Roumanian peasant did not know possibly 
that there was an Argentine. To-day, though, the 
Roumanian knows that the price he gets for his wheat 
depends upon what the Argentine farmers get for 
theirs. I believe that as science progresses and cul- 
ture spreads over the world, that the geographical 
barrier to peace can be broken down. Consider 
Switzerland, it is the ideal. Three races, French, 
German and Italian, live within its walls, but they 
are held together by culture." 

I pointed out that Switzerland was so small that 
the French, Germans and Italians had a chance to 

327 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

know and understand their different customs and 
personalities, and asked Professor Stein if culture 
was also holding together Austria-Hungary? 

"Austria," he said, "is an exception. Politically 
it is necessary to have the monarchial symbol there, 
because only in a military state would it be possible 
for so many different races to live at peace with them- 
selves. Austria is different from Switzerland be- 
cause it is a crazy quilt of many different, uncultured, 
mostly illiterate, to some extent nomadic races." 

The Professor, who is a great admirer of Herbert 
Spencer and whom Spencer said understood him bet- 
ter than any Continental thinker, thereupon men- 
tioned the point that the famous Englishman had 
made. 

" Spencer," he said, " wrote that instead of war, a 
competition in traffic and industry would take place 
between nations." 

" But, Professor," I asked, " does not traffic and in- 
dustry breed war; what caused this war? Was not 
commercial jealousy between England and Germany 
one of the vital causes of the war? " 

He admitted that it was, and went on to say : 

" After this war, the Englishman will look at his 
books, he will take his pencil in his hand and he will 
begin figuring. He will get up a balance sheet, and he 
will find that war does not pay. England is rational 
to excess. For years she has been the political clear- 
ing house of the world. She could in this way rule five 
hundred million people as long as these people were 
not striving for nationalism. But Germany attains 

328 



THE FUTURE — PEACE OR WAR 

its conscious nationalism, and asks herself, Why 
should I allow the thirty-eight million people of Great 
Britain, through their political clearing house, to have 
such a dominate influence on the affairs of the world? 
W^herefore in the last analysis, this war was caused 
by the thorough gaining of national consciousness 
that English diplomacy has no longer been able to 
retard. And under the industrial system of to-day, 
things are not done with papers passing through a 
clearing house, but with blood. 

" I regard this war as an expression of the soli- 
darity of the world on the minus side. It is an un- 
derground solidarity, but is having, for the moment, 
a negative influence because commerce is stopped. 
The United States is feeling it, it is holding up your 
country. It is holding up China which cannot get 
money for necessary improvements. But all this is 
working towards the conscious solidarity of the fu- 
ture, which will be expressed in a positive war ; when 
fighting will be done not with cannons but with con- 
tracts; when not blood but ink will be wasted." 

" You believe then, Professor,'^ I asked, " that the 
day will come when there will be no war, when fight- 
ing actually will be done with ink? Suppose that day 
comes, will it be a good thing? Do you consider in- 
ternational peace a friend or an enemy to robust 
normal manhood? Do you think that war cleans 
out degenerate tendencies of peaceful civilization?" 

Deciding that this was a metaphysical question. 
Professor Stein preferred not to answer it. He did 
though say this: 

329 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

" In the Bible it says that the holy fire must be kept 
burning on the altar. It is a good thing for the world 
that there are idealists to keep the fire going. Men 
like Carnegie, Kockefeller, and the puritan and 
quaker elements, they do their service to the world in 
this way. The world must have ideals. Interna- 
tional peace is an ideal. It is like the point of a 
compass, the north star that the mariner sees, or the 
star of the desert. It points the way for those who 
want to go toward a certain goal. I say, that as an 
ideal, it is impossible of achievement, because the 
very way to it shows the people where they really 
want to go." 

" But, Professor,'' I suggested, " if a nation has only 
ideals, it is going to get into trouble. I have heard 
it expressed that the peace movement has done the 
United States more harm than good. Will you, as 
one of its hardest workers, give some message to the 
people of America, on the status of international 
peace to-day and in the future? '^ 

" Your country," he said, " has not yet attained its 
nationalism, but it is most wonderful, because it is 
not formed like Austria, of half civilized, uncultured 
races held together by the monarchical system, but 
because it is welding itself together from material, 
a large part of which was composed of the scum of 
Europe. I wonder that it has been able to make the 
strides towards nationalism, that it already has. 
No state in the world has progressed so far by com- 
parison towards national consciousness as has Amer- 
ica in so short a time. Up to now, America has been 

330 



THE FUTURE — PEACE OR WAR 

the student of Europe, but from now on, America will 
be the teacher. To-day doubly so; with the Panama 
Canal you are the forepost of the white race against 
the yellow. The geographical and moral position 
that your country holds, imposes upon it a great duty. 
It is to hold back the East. Your country cannot 
step aside from the yellow races. You must be pre- 
pared to cope with them." 

" What, Professor ! You are suggesting armament 
for the United States. Why! that is against every 
teaching of the peace propagandist in our country.'' 

'' If the people of the United States," stated Pro- 
fessor Stein deliberately, " believe that the peace 
movement is bound to save them from war, they have 
either totally misconstrued it, or they have been 
grossly misinformed. A nation must be prepared for 
war. If the rulers of a nation leave their country 
unprepared, they are guilty of criminal neglect. In 
China its four hundred millions of people are un- 
prepared, and are therefore at the mercy of a few 
million Japanese who are prepared. That is because 
in this generation might is right, and all that we work- 
ers for peace can do, without injuring our states, is to 
face the facts of this generation, be prepared for 
war, if war there is to be, and keep on working for 
our ideal. Anything else is a dream." 

'^ But, Professor," I remarked, " that is not the 
peace idea as it has been spread broadcast in America. 
Those who believe in the movement, think that the 
peace societies of our country can keep us ouf of war. 
What you have just said disagrees with Andrew Car- 

331 



BEHIND THE SCENES IN WARRING GERMANY 

negie's peace utterances in the United States. Would 
you mind telling me the difference between your view- 
point and Mr. Carnegie's? " 

" I shall be glad to do so," replied Professor Stein. 
" Mr. Carnegie looks at the peace movement from a 
puritanical viewpoint. He has interpreted the bibli- 
cal text of turning the sword into a plow-share liter- 
ally as applying to the present day. I believe that 
swords will be turned into plow shares, but not in 
our generation. That will come to pass, not because 
it is in the Bible, but because the imminent logic of 
history will bring it about. Eventually the imminent 
logic of history will create international peace. The 
puritanical workers for peace believe that because 
it is written in the Bible that all men are born equal, 
they should try to equalize mankind to-day. It will 
take about a hundred years to educate and solidify 
the white race alone. It will take about ten thou- 
sand years, let us say, to educate all the races of the 
world and achieve a world brotherhood. The great 
mistake that is made is in thinking that the ideals of 
the Bible are possible to-day. They are utterly im- 
possible." 

I then asked Professor Stein to summarize his 
opinions for me. '* I have read your paper," I said, 
" written before the war, on Cosmopolitism, National, 
State and International Compromise. There is one 
point I want to ask you about. You wrote — -these 
are not your exact words. Professor — *What poets 
and philosophers have dreamed of, and what the 
Catholic Church has in some respects already real- 

332 



THE FUTURE — PEACE OR WAR 

ized: One shepherd and one herd! that will be the 
state of Europe in times coming^ — What did 
you mean, Professor, by that phrase ' One shepherd 
and one herd ' ? Did you mean to convey that one 
state powerfully armed would be a sort of inter- 
national policeman, strong enough to keep the peace 
among other nations? Did you have in mind a Ger- 
many whose mission would be to shepherd the people 
of the world? '' 

" Absolutely not," replied Professor Stein ; " by one 
shepherd I meant the imperialism of the white race. 
White imperialism will divide the world between the 
white states. The Western European and American 
cultural systems will rule. My idea is not the United 
States of Europe, but the united cultural system of 
the white race." 

" And when will that be possible, Professor? " 

" As soon as nationalism has been thoroughly sat- 
urated, and conscious internationalism has been 
achieved, and that will probably be within a hundred 
years." 

" And meanwhile? " I asked. 

"Alas! The world of to-day cannot be ruled 

WITH OIL OF roses, BUT ONLY WITH BLOOD." 



THE END 



333 



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